Last night I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do that would make sexual assault their fault.

Last night, around the table where they used to draw smiling stick figures and yellow balls spitting out sunlight, I told my daughters that it doesn't matter if they've been drinking.

Beneath the stain from the peach puree Maya flung to the ceiling from her highchair a decade ago, I said it didn't matter what they were (or were not) wearing.

It doesn't matter if they're on a date.

Or if they really like(d) the person.

Into three sets of big brown eyes, I said it doesn't even matter if they thought maybe they wanted the person to touch them but then changed their mind.

Doesn't matter if they're two or sixty.

Or if it's a man, a woman, or a child.

Or if it's a relative, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a stranger.

If he's the most popular or powerful or scariest.  If she's important or well known or rich.

The moment they say "no" it's over.  End of story.

Anything after the no is assault, I told them. 

Anything after the no is wrong.  The other person's wrong.  Not theirs.  Never ever theirs.

And I will believe you, I told them.  I will always believe you.  Believe in you.

I read one report of a child who didn't tell her mother because her mother always said she would kill anyone who hurt her baby.  That little girl was so afraid her mother would go to jail for killing the man who hurt her that she stayed quiet.  That one got to me.  I told this story to my girls last night at the table where all important decisions are made. 
"You would do that, mama.  I know it."  
"I would want to, mija.  For sure.  But how about this.  I promise I would handle it in whatever way is best for you.  Whatever way you would want me to."
I bargained with my children about how I would handle the worst possible situation that would come across that table.  These aren't the kinds of conversations anyone can prepare you for. 

Last night I sat the three most important choices I ever made down at the table where we gather to eat or to laugh or to whoop each other's behinds at Uno and I did my best to ensure that they don't walk my path.  That's really the number one thing I've always tried to teach them:  please don't follow me,  you're so much better than that.

Guilt is a powerful thing and blame is a heavy burden.  Neither is something you grow out of either.  It isn't something you eventually shed and forget about.  Thinking your pain is of your own doing will change the entire way you move through the world until you cannot take one more step.

No more skipping or dancing or flying.  No more light.

The only thing more powerful than shedding unwanted weight from your shoulders is knowing it was never yours to carry.

Like every parent, I don't ever want to experience the pain of someone hurting my child.  But the idea of my child hurting and not reporting that suffering to the person entrusted to protect them?  That would be my ultimate failure.

Last night, around the table where I slowly watched their legs grow long enough for their feet to touch the floor, I told my daughters that there's nothing they could do to make sexual assault their fault.

All the while, fingers crossed that at tables around the world, boys were being reminded that no means no.  And hesitation means no.  And really anything other than yes means no.