When I was seven years old, my parents chose my fourteen-year-old brother’s image, and their own, over my mental health and well being, and that of my sisters and foster sisters. He had sexually abused me from as early as age four, though my memories are stronger as I got older. They found out because my four-year-old sister and foster sister were exhibiting sexual behavior, and from there all I can remember is that my parents spoke to all of us, then went straight to the Mormon bishop, who determined my brother couldn’t take the sacrament for a couple of weeks. I remember the punishment clearly, and it haunts me to this day. Sexual abuse was reported to a clergy, but nothing was done. And no mention of the incident or keeping ourselves safe from it ever happening again was EVER mentioned. I can remember lots of “stranger danger” trainings, but nothing about the danger that had already happened in our home. If our clergy had been trained to contact police, I might have gotten help from a therapist early on and would not still be processing the abuse to this day. But my parents covered the whole affair up (especially since they were foster parents) and chose to silence my pain while they promoted their own interests.