THE MOTH SUBMISSION + UNDERDOG SF 09.30.25

Nervous is an understatement. After a year of working with my therapist for this moment, I’m flying from California to Georgia to confront my stepfather. Him: a respected MD PHD physician who continues his studies at Harvard. Me: a struggling L.A. actor/server in her twenties, asked recently by my table, “Why do you work here? You’re so much better than this place.”

The goal today is to execute an ambush at this place, my stepdad’s office, during his work hours. Upon arriving at his office, however, I realize too late that I have to be buzzed in to access patient rooms to talk to him. 

It’s a sign, I think. I should turn back now.

No. I flew for six hours. I haven’t spoken with my family for a year. How do I get in there?

Just leave. I can’t do this. I could wet myself I’m so scared. 

That’s it.

I stomp up to the front desk with conviction, “Excuse me, may I use the restroom?”

I’m almost disappointed at how easy it is as she buzzes me in. 

[Imitate buzzing sound]

And then, I’m in. Into where, into what, I’m not sure. What have I done? 

But I look up and follow the signs with my stepdad’s name on it. Walking farther back, slipping deeper into myself when I hear it. What I’ve been looking for, but maybe didn’t want to find. 

From behind the closed door, I listen to his voice on the phone. Talking about the rose bushes that need to be sprayed. The magnolia tree that needs to be trimmed. All so trivial.

Life goes on. Especially for my stepdad. 

And then he says “Alright, yes. Thank you. Goodbye now.”

Silence. My heart stops. I can’t do this. 

Breathe. I will do this. 

I storm in. 

“Hi. We need to talk.”

It takes him a second because it looks like he’s seen a dead person. He kind of has.

“Alright, Becky, let’s just go outside and talk” he declares.

He wants to regain control. Dictate the situation. He rises to his feet-

“No! We’re talking here! Now.” I point my finger downward. I’m shaking on the inside, hoping it’s not showing on the outside.

A change. He realizes that I could be a big, big problem in this office. Outside of this office. He sits. I speak.

“I really don’t know where to begin because I can’t even think of what to call you. But I know what you are. You are a sick, sick man.” 

His eyebrows raise. He’s livid, but he knows better than to interrupt me. 

“You are a man who preyed on me as a little girl, who exploited the trust I put in you. You violated me in every possible way.”

 Holding him to account, I describe what he did to me for ten years. I continue.

“Why would a Father act out his perverse sexual desires on his young daughter? The answer is a Father wouldn’t. But you weren’t a Father, you were a predator masked as one. You were smart enough to prey on the damaged family, but you didn’t size up this little girl accordingly. I’m no longer a little girl. You can fool my mom, my uncles, my cousins, you can fool everyone else in the entire world, but you can’t fool me. I see the truth. And if I hear anything, anything at all, about you harming a child, I will do everything in my power to take you down. I hope I never see you again, but I hope you get help. You need it.”

And as I walk out that door, I feel all of the emotions. 

Yes, the statute of limitations and threshold to prove sexual abuse ensures I’ll never have formal justice. Sadly, I’m in the majority. According to RAINN, 98% of perpetrators walk free.

But my victory was never dependent upon his suffering, his conviction, something I need from him. I don’t need anything from him and he doesn’t get to take anything else from me anymore.

My victory rests within me reclaiming what he could never truly take to begin with. My voice.

Thank you.