Once, when I was 27, my uncle asked me, “Are you a virgin?” From that moment on, I began to be afraid of him. A few days later, when he took me to a hotel on the outskirts of the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, “After the pool, come up to my room.”
I was already twenty-seven years old, but that night was the first time I felt real fear of my uncle.
His name was Richard. He was my father’s older brother, and ever since I was a child, he had been one of the people everyone in our family trusted.
When I was little, he would bring me birthday presents, come to my school performances, and always tell me:
“If you ever need anything, just call me.”
After my father’s death, those words took on even greater importance for me.
