Video Call With My Granddaughter—I Heard “Is It Normal To Take Pictures Without Clothes?” Then…

We did homework together, cooked dinner together, and watched nature documentaries together. I taught her how to identify birds, how to bake bread, and how to change a tire—normal things, safe things.

On the first anniversary of that terrible night, Sophie asked if we could visit the cemetery where Patricia was buried. “Why?” I asked, surprised.

“Dr. Chen says, ‘Sometimes it helps to say goodbye to the person who hurt you even if they’re not alive to hear it.'” So we drove to the cemetery, the three of us.

We found the simple gravestone with Patricia’s name, with no flowers or decorations. Her son, Melissa’s ex-husband, had moved to Australia and wanted nothing to do with his mother’s memory.

Sophie stood in front of the grave for a long moment, then spoke. “I forgive you because holding on to anger hurts me more than it hurts you.” Sophie said.

“But I’ll never forget what you did, and because of you, 32 other kids got helped, so maybe something good came from something bad. I hope you found peace. I’m working on finding mine.” Then she took my hand, and we walked away.

The legal proceedings continued for years. The members of the network were tried, convicted, and sentenced, with prison terms ranging from 10 years to life.

Assets were seized, names were added to registries, and lives were destroyed as they should have been. I attended every single sentencing hearing, sat in the courtroom gallery, and watched as these people were held accountable for their crimes.

Some showed remorse; most didn’t. They’d convinced themselves that what they were doing was victimless, that the children enjoyed it, that society simply didn’t understand their orientation.

At the final hearing for the man who had been scheduled to meet Sophie that day, three weeks after we stopped it, I was given the opportunity to read a victim impact statement. I stood at the podium and looked directly at him.

“You will never know my granddaughter’s name,” I said.

“You will never see her face, never know where she lives, never have any information about her. She is beyond your reach forever.” I continued.

“But I want you to know what you didn’t take from her. You didn’t take her smile, though you tried. You didn’t take her love of art, her curiosity, her kindness.” “You didn’t take her future. She’s going to grow up, go to college, have a career, maybe have children of her own someday.”

“She’s going to live a full, beautiful life. And you’re going to rot in a cell, forgotten and alone.” “That’s the difference between victims and predators. Victims survive. Predators just exist until they don’t.”

He was sentenced to 25 years without possibility of parole. Sophie is 12 now, five years since that night.

She’s in seventh grade, taking advanced art classes, playing soccer, and learning to play guitar. She still sees Dr. Chen once a month, and probably will for years to come.

She still has hard days, moments when the memories surface unbidden. But she’s also learned that trauma doesn’t have to be a cage, that survival can be a form of strength, and that asking for help when you need it isn’t weakness.

Last week she came to me with a project she’d been working on in secret. It was a presentation for her school assembly about recognizing warning signs of abuse, about the importance of telling trusted adults when something feels wrong, and about how secrets that make you uncomfortable are never good secrets.

“Will you come watch?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I replied.

I sat in the auditorium with Melissa and watched my granddaughter stand at the podium in front of 200 students and speak clearly and confidently about the importance of protecting children. She didn’t tell her own story, not specifically, but she spoke with the authority of someone who understood the stakes.

When she finished, the auditorium was silent for a moment, then the applause started. Students, teachers, parents—everyone was standing and clapping for this brave young woman who had turned her trauma into advocacy.

Afterward, three students approached her privately and told her they needed to talk to someone about things that were happening at home. Sophie brought them directly to the school counselor and stayed with them while they made their first reports.

Because of her courage five years ago, three more children were saved. Because she’d asked that question on video chat, because she’d trusted her instinct that something was wrong, dozens of children had been protected.

That night, as I drove Sophie home, she was quiet, processing the day’s events. “Grandpa,” she said finally.

“Yes, sweetheart?” “Do you think Nana Patricia would have ever stopped if I hadn’t asked you that question?”

I’d thought about this countless times over the years, wondered about the what-ifs, the alternate timelines where things had gone differently. “No,” I said.

“Honestly, I don’t think she would have. People like that don’t stop on their own. They have to be stopped.” I stopped her.

“You did. You were brave enough to ask a question even though she told you not to. That’s real courage, Sophie. Not the absence of fear, but acting despite the fear.” She nodded, looking out the window at the passing street lights.

“I’m glad I asked,” she said.

“Even though it was scary. Even though I was afraid you’d be mad at me.” “I will never be mad at you for asking questions. Never. And I’ll always come when you need me.”

Forty-one hours of driving, 4,000 km—I’d do it again in a heartbeat. She reached over and squeezed my hand.

“I know, Grandpa. That’s why I asked you and not anyone else, because I knew you’d come.” And that, in the end, was the only thing that mattered.

Not that I’d arrived in time to prevent the worst of it. Not that justice had been served.

Not even that the network had been dismantled and other children saved. What mattered was that when my granddaughter needed me, when she asked that question that could have been dismissed or ignored or rationalized away, I listened.

I believed her, and I came. Every child deserves that.

Every single one. If you’re reading this and you have children in your life—grandchildren, nieces, nephews, students, neighbors—I’m asking you to remember Sophie’s question.

Is it normal for grown-ups to take pictures of kids without clothes on? The answer is no.

It’s never normal. It’s never okay.

It’s never art or education or special bonding time. And if a child asks you something that makes your blood run cold, that triggers every alarm bell in your nervous system, don’t ignore it.

Don’t rationalize it. Don’t assume someone else will handle it.

Listen. Believe. Act. Because somewhere right now, there’s another child trying to find the courage to ask that question.

And whether or not they’re saved depends entirely on whether the adult they ask is willing to hear them.