My grandfather's funeral was an event I'd dreaded - and longed for. After a protracted illness he died in his 80th year. The last time I saw him he was incoherent and incontinent, but he recognised me and his eyes filled with tears. My heart raced. He knew that he was dying and I thought that he might confess our shameful secret with his last breath. All he managed was my name. I couldn't get out of the hospital room quick enough.

Childhood abuse victims are often unsure of exact details. I remember one occasion vividly; that could have been the first. My grandfather and I were alone while my mum and grandma prepared a meal. He told me that girls needed to “practise” kissing so they'd know what to do as grown-ups. I was 6 or 7 and his attention was not forceful, or unpleasant. He coaxed me, telling me it was our secret. I never considered telling anyone. I'm an only child, with all male cousins and no “sister figure” to confide in. My dad left when I was 6 and Mum was extremely prudish. She was also strict and I feared her punishment.

The abuse had stopped by the time I was 12 and starting puberty. It finished, in fact, when I knew it was wrong. He didn't steal my virginity or force me to touch him, but his fondling and sexual caresses were so sickening to recall that I buried the memories.

I had my first serious boyfriend at the age of 16. I never mentioned the abuse, even when he wanted to know why I went off having sex after a few months. It was easy to blame myself. I thought of my childhood self as a prepubescent Lolita who got what she asked for. It never occurred to me that my early sexual awareness was a result of the abuse, not the cause.

The first person I told was my boyfriend at university; I was 19, drunk and we were fighting. He had no clue how to handle it and it wasn't discussed again. I overheard him telling his friend about my abuse after we broke up, which did nothing to bolster my trust in other human beings.

My self-esteem was in disarray during my early twenties, and it didn't help that, as my grandfather got sicker, my family hero-worshipped him. Meeting my partner helped me to recover. When I revealed my secret to him, early in our relationship, he cried. It was the first time I'd considered the abuse to be anything other than my fault. I love my mother, but still feel angry that she couldn't protect me. She frustrates me, talking about paedophilia as though only strangers wearing macs perpetrate it, yet I don't speak up to tell her why she's wrong. I often wonder if he abused her too and she has done a better job than me of suppressing the memory.

Although he's gone, I still have dreams in which my grandad is alive, and I wake up shaking. Most parents worry about “stranger danger”, but I overanalyse the behaviour of friends and family members. I don't like my children staying overnight with anyone and make excuses when their grandparents suggest it.

I'm still trying to forgive my grandfather, but it's tough. I think about the tears he shed the last time I saw him, and hope that he left this Earth with some understanding of the hurt he caused me.

Do you have a secret?

E-mail familysecrets@thetimes.co.uk

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