My half-sister is 10 years younger than me and we share the misfortune of being related to our biological father, who was emotionally abusive to me for as long as I can remember. I was 12 years old when I met my half-sister, Morgan, who was then two and a half.

For this story to make sense, I have to back up a bit and explain my relationship with my biological father. In my mind, my biological father touching me was associated with trouble. He had this strange habit of laying his hand underneath me palm-up as I sat down, so he was literally touching everything.

Another example was a fun “play time” moment gone wrong. He had been flipping me over his head playfully and then suddenly threw me to the other side of the couch and yelled at me for biting his ear. I still don't know where that accusation came from, but I was shunned by the entire household until I admitted my “guilt” and asked for forgiveness.

Yet another example is one of the many times I was randomly back-handed across the face for talking about my mom. The excuse was, "My hand slipped" and "You shouldn't have moved." I was being put in my car seat, so there was not much movement available on my part, but it was always my fault.

Anyway, you get the idea. Because of this cat-and-mouse relationship and the horrible emotional condition I came back in when visitation ended, it had finally been court ordered that he had to follow all of the recommendations my therapist made. One recommendation was very near and dear to my heart: no physical contact.

True to his character, he did not heed the court-ordered restrictions but forced physical contact upon me. Twice he succeeded in putting his hand underneath me when I sat down, which was much creepier than past times because I was then going through puberty. I was scoffed at and ridiculed for sitting on his hand, never mind the fact that his arm was stretched as far as it could reach in order to achieve his disgusting goal. He also made sure to ‘accidentally’ bump into me and brush his hand against my rear end often. I was really angry, uncomfortable, and disgusted.

I began trying to create as much space as possible between the two of us and refused to turn my back to him. This made him angry and this is where my half-sister comes back into play.

My biological father observed me with my little half-sister and, when displeased with my behavior (i.e. not allowing him to touch me), he started obnoxiously doting on her in an attempt to make me jealous and vie for his love. That didn't work and I actually smiled a little bit because:

a) It was nice to see him act like a good father for once.
b) I hoped that maybe my prayers had been answered and that the series of unfortunate events was for me alone.

As much as I had always wanted to have a good relationship with my biological father, after many long years of fruitless effort and continuous trauma, I had come to accept the fact that I would never have my wish.

I considered my stepdad, who adopted me at 18, as soon as it was legally possible, to be my real dad and viewed my biological father as a man with whom I had the misfortune of sharing DNA. I knew I would never have a good relationship with him, so I eagerly counted down the days and hours of my visitation, ready for my torture session to end.

For that reason, I was not jealous but relieved to see my little half-sister being treated well, even if it was obnoxiously over-dramatized. I didn't have to go home with him, she did.

After several failed attempts to make me jealous, our biological father noticed that his brilliant plan wasn't working. He realized he couldn't make me jealous because I did not want his love and attention. He changed methods and began mistreating Morgan as punishment for my displeasing behavior. The game changer and the memory that sticks out clearly in my mind was this:

Morgan and I were waiting in the car with our biological father while my stepmom went into a store. He turned to look at us in the backseat and began to tickle her, allowing his hand to stray so his fingers were between her legs.

He continued to tickle her in that spot, but instead of looking at her, he stared directly at me with an accusatory expression: Look what you're doing to your sister. The feeling I had as he and I locked eyes was horrible.

From my throat down to my stomach felt empty, yet full of boiling acid. She was giggling during this whole horrible encounter. Now, mind you, she was two and a half and still in diapers, so she had no idea that what was going on was inappropriate. Nevertheless, her lack of surprise at this touch gave me a horrible sinking feeling that maybe I was wrong before when I thought he treated her well.

That's where this memory stops. I have a vague impression of attempting to end the inappropriate tickling that continued through the duration of my stepmom's absence. After that, I am unable to retrieve any memories. Even when I try to concentrate on what happened next, my brain skips over it and I feel nauseous, which means I was very likely punished for my efforts.

After that experience in the car, I knew Morgan stood a better chance of making it out of her childhood somewhat unscathed if I was not present. In order to spare her, I distanced myself from her for the rest of the visit. I went into what I call “survival mode,” where I shut down my brain, so to speak, and enter a numb state of being.

I could not completely distance myself, though, because those sad all adoring eyes would captivate me and I would comfort her, reassuring her in some small, hopefully, unnoticeable way. I wished she could understand that what I was doing was to protect her, not because I didn't want to be with her.

So, long story short, I have been an absent big sister for an excellent reason. It has been 10 years since I have had any form of contact with my half-sister or our biological father. I pray for Morgan often and beg God to show her mercy and spare her from our father's depravity.

I pray that our biological father and my stepmom have changed and are actually good parents to her. I pray for Christians to be in her life who will lead her to God, the only one who can truly protect her. I've tearfully pleaded with God on her behalf so many times I've lost count. I have not forgotten her.