The moment I discovered both of my children had been sexually abused by our babysitter’s partner, I was hollowed out by the greatest sorrow I’d ever known.

They were aged four and two.

A stain bloomed backwards through time, through all the moments that once felt delightful and perfect: fat little hands catching the light, unsteady feet in tiny sneakers, sleeping faces. All those times I kissed their soft cheeks goodbye.

Time collapsed in on itself. There was no before and after – just an after that swallowed everything.

As their stories unfurled, in the aftermath of reporting them, I held my children with all the strength and protective love a mother can muster. I reassured them always: We believe you. This is not your fault. I am so sorry I wasn’t there. Years later, they carry no shame, and their childhood brims with joy.

I am one parent among countless parents affected by child sexual abuse. As the silent guardian of my children’s stories, as their fierce advocate, I am bound to protect their privacy. Their stories belong to them. There are countless voiceless parents like me, siloed in trying to simultaneously support their children’s healing while quietly reassembling their shattered selves.

For so many other kinds of traumas and sorrows we have a shared language, grief and ritual. We know secrets are corrosive, that healing deepens when we share our experience with others. Communal care is vital for our wellbeing. We know, too, especially as women, the power........

© The Guardian