But where there’s good, there’s always bad waiting to ruin it.

On moving day, Mom and Dad were busy packing and setting up the new apartment. They left me and my siblings with Vicky. We stayed behind in the old house, ate dinner, and one by one, we fell asleep.

Back then, we weren’t seven kids yet—just five. I was the oldest, but still just a child. That night, I was deep in sleep when I felt something strange—a hand, soft and gentle, moving over my trousers. I tried to ignore it, but the touch was too distracting. Then I heard it: brup.

The sound of my zipper being pulled down.

I opened my eyes slowly, confused. Vicky was there, pulling my trousers off. At first, I didn’t think much of it—she had bathed me before. But then she took off my pants, and her hands moved in a way they never had before. She massaged me—there—until I felt myself grow hard.

I didn’t understand what was happening. No one had ever taught me about this.

Before I could process anything, she removed her underwear and sat on top of me.

Then—warmth.

A soft, calming sensation.

I looked down and saw it—me—inside her.

She started moving, rocking back and forth like a light switch flicking on and off. I didn’t even realize when the moans started—hers, then mine. It felt good. It felt wrong.

By the time I understood what had happened, it was too late.

Vicky had taken my virginity.

At ten years old.

Without my consent.

Without me even knowing what sex was.

I couldn’t tell my parents. Dad never listened to me. Mom gave advice but did whatever she wanted. Who would believe me?

Vicky stole more than my first time—she took my dignity, my trust, my childhood. And worst of all, she changed my life forever.

This wasn’t just a bad memory.

It was the moment I learned that the world wasn’t safe.