”My evil dad raped me and called me his mistress”
Annie Lafferty, 26, from Donegal, tells how she was assaulted for years by her own father – and how her mum has stood by him
As country music blasted from the stereo, I watched my father swing his hips in time to the music. “You’re Daddy’s little girl!” he slurred, twirling me around the living room. As we danced together, I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. It was March 2003 and I was nine years old.
Growing up, my father Maurice, now 51, played the same song, the country hit Daddy’s Little Girl every night after he’d had a few drinks. My mum Andrea, now 43, worked as a care assistant three nights a week, so Dad looked after me and my younger siblings – my seven-year-old brother and my three sisters, who were then six, five and four.
We would entertain ourselves most nights, playing with each other in our bedrooms while he got drunk and listened to music. He wasn’t a doting father and would spend his days boozing and watching TV, so we didn’t have a close relationship.
Then, one night in September 2006, when I was about to turn 13, I heard a noise outside my bedroom. I spotted Dad peering at me through the crack in the door. I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended not to notice him. After a few minutes, he was gone.
In June 2007, like most teenagers, I began experimenting with make-up and clothes.
Pulling on a white denim mini-skirt and pink lipstick, I ran downstairs one afternoon to go to meet some school friends. Before I made it to the front door, Dad looked at me in disgust. “You look like a slut,” he said. “Get changed now.” Upset, I ran to my room and put on a pair of jeans, but when I went back downstairs he refused to let me go out. Deflated I skulked back upstairs.
Later that day, Dad ordered me to give every skirt and dress I owned to my younger sisters. When I questioned his decision, he couldn’t give me a straight answer. “Because I said so, that’s why,” he told me. I didn’t want to anger him, so I did as I was told.
creepy comments
From then on, Dad yelled at me for baring my legs around the house and refused to let me see my friends. But the rule only applied to me – my siblings were still allowed out to play. It was so unfair. I was desperate to tell Mum, but I was too scared she’d take Dad’s side and I’d be told off.
One morning, a month later, I crept downstairs to get a drink. Dressed in my vest and pyjama shorts, I hoped Dad wasn’t up. But as I tiptoed into the kitchen, he was standing there. Expecting to be yelled at, I quickly apologised for being out of bed. But Dad’s eyes scanned my body. “Look at those sexy curves,” he said, grinning.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt physically sick. I knew it wasn’t normal for fathers to say that to their daughters. Shuddering, I ran back to my room. The next day I wanted to tell Mum about Dad’s creepy comment, but I worried she wouldn’t believe me.
As the years passed, Dad leered at me every chance he got, so I avoided him as much as I could, staying in my bedroom.
Then one morning, in November 2010, when I was 17, I was woken up by my door slamming. Light flooded the room and I saw Dad standing near my bed. “What are you doing?” I asked, confused. Seconds later, without warning, he pounced on me.
‘Dad leered at me every chance he got’
Pinning me to the bed, he ripped down my pyjama bottoms and knickers, then stripped himself naked. “No!” I screamed as he forced himself on me. Terrified, I lay still as he raped me. “You little tramp,” he whispered in my ear. “You love it.”
He put his hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. After he finished, he threatened me.“if you tell anyone, I’ll rape your sisters,” he said.
“You’re evil,” I sobbed. Then he left the room, leaving me frozen with shock. The fact that my own father had just raped me began to slowly sink in.
The next day, I felt sick when I saw him watching TV like nothing had happened. “Good morning,” he winked at me. I quickly rushed back upstairs into my room, where I stayed all day. Dad’s threats about raping my sisters rolled around my mind constantly. I knew if I told Mum and he found out, he would hurt them too. I had to protect them.
The following week, Dad cornered me on the landing after Mum left for work. My siblings were in their rooms.
Dad put his hand over my mouth and dragged me into his bedroom. There, he flung me on to his bed. As I tried to pull myself away, he pinned me down. I wanted to scream for help, but I remembered his warning and realised I needed to protect my sisters. So, I gave up and lay still as he raped me. I wanted to die. Afterwards, I noticed my back was covered in scratches and blood.
From then on, every time Mum worked nights, I was left at the mercy of my father and he raped me once a week.
Three months later, in January 2011, I watched Mum pack her bags for work one morning. I couldn’t hold the secret in any more. “Dad has been raping me,” I told her. “Don’t make up such rubbish,” she snapped. I was in disbelief. Then Mum rushed downstairs to confront Dad in the living room. “Annie just said you’ve been raping her,” she said. “That kid makes so much stuff up,” Dad laughed.
When Mum came back to the bedroom for her bag, she looked at me in disgust. “You’re a liar, Annie,” she said.
I burst into tears. I couldn’t understand how my own mother didn’t believe me.
After she left, I returned to my bedroom and hid under my duvet. And that night, Dad raped me again. “No one is going to believe you,” he sniggered. “Your own mother doesn’t.” He was right. There was no way out.
A few weeks later, Dad forced me to go to the pub to meet his friends. “This is my mistress,” he laughed, smacking my bottom. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. Then, I realised I’d met one of Dad’s friends before. As I watched the man laugh nervously, I’d never felt more betrayed. He knew I was
Dad’s daughter and he didn’t say a word.
turning point
By September 2011, 11 months after Dad first attacked me, I was at breaking point.
One night, as Dad raped me, I managed to summon the strength to push him off me.
“If you touch me again I’ll tell social services,” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
It was the first time I’d ever stood up to him. Dad looked terrified and fled my room.
From then on, he stayed away from me and I was finally the one in control.
The following year, in August 2012, just before my 19th birthday, I got a job as a healthcare assistant. I saved every penny I earned, and in June 2016 I put a deposit down for a flat. It was the freedom I’d craved.
I’d been dating my boyfriend Luke*, 25, for a while but had never confessed what I’d been through. But soon I began having horrible nightmares, so eventually, I had no choice but to tell him everything.
The next day, Luke convinced me to report Dad to the police and just hours later he was arrested and charged with rape.
In January 2019, Maurice Lafferty, 50, of Castlefin, Donegal, Ireland, pleaded guilty to four counts of rape at the Central Criminal Court in Dublin. At his sentencing, Mum stood by him and
I’d never felt so betrayed.
During my victim impact statement, I found the strength to face that monster. “You ruined my life,” I said, staring at him. He didn’t look remorseful. Thankfully, he was sentenced to 11 years and I’d never been so relieved in my life.
Now, I’m trying to move forward with my life. Maurice is my father and his job was to protect me.
I’ll never forgive him – or my mother for not believing me.