The Babysitter’s House: Witnessing the Unthinkable

There are some memories you wish you could erase, but they stick to your soul like smoke after a fire. I was just three years old, and my mom had started leaving me with a babysitter... one she had been warned about. My dad had told her not to. The sitter had a reputation: cruel, unstable, dangerous. But my mom didn’t listen.

I remember only a couple visits there, but the final one is seared into me like a brand.

The woman had a son. His name was Martin. He was six. Just a child like me. I remember the house being cold, dim. She locked me in the bathroom one day. I was looking around at the cabinets and tiles, feeling like I wasn’t supposed to be snooping. Still, I sat there quietly. Then she came in and handed me a popsicle. I remember its color. I remember the way it felt, sticky and sweet and out of place.

Then she came in again.

She turned on the bathwater. Cheerfully, almost playfully, she told Martin they were going to play a game. I didn’t know what was happening. I watched her place him in the tub. I didn’t hear laughter. I saw flailing. I saw water splash. I saw confusion and panic, not joy.

She had a boyfriend with her. He just watched her. I turned to him and asked, “What is she doing?”

He said nothing. Maybe he was high. Maybe he was scared. But he didn’t stop her.

He called the police, but by the time they got there, it was too late.

Martin died in that bathtub.

And I was there.

I didn’t understand what had happened until much later. My mom never told my dad I was present that day. Not until a year later, when I found words to explain what I’d seen. I remember sitting on the sidewalk after, cops everywhere. My dad came home. My mom gave him a half-truth. And I, just a tiny little girl with a soul way too full, held that memory in silence until I couldn’t anymore.

And God… God held me in the silence.

I don’t know why I was spared. Why Martin wasn’t. Why my life was filled with so much pain before I could even write my own name. But I know this:

God never left the room.

He was there in the confusion. He was there when the door was locked and no one came. He was there when I didn’t have words, and there when the truth finally spilled out. He was there when the devil tried to mark me with death, and instead, I walked away with purpose.

Martin’s life mattered. Mine does too. And this story, painful as it is, is part of my testimony.

I’m not a victim.

I’m not cursed.

I’m called.

And no matter what the enemy tried to steal, kill, or destroy, God is still restoring every broken piece.