I am a preacher’s daughter, the youngest of seven children.In the world I grew up in, the pastor and his family always had to be perfect.

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We have sought counsel from trusted advisors, and have spent many hours in prayerful consideration before publishing this story.

While there will always be an element of “He-said/She-said” in stories of this nature, we have spent over eight months investigating this story.

He wanted me around him as much as possible, wanted me to be with him as much as he could get me.

I started meeting with him in his office in the morning, every morning.

My parents told Gothard that, because of him, they were convicted to have more children.

I was born in 1975, and from the get go I was told that I was special—the seventh child, God’s perfect number—and that I owed my life to Bill Gothard.He would pick me up in his blue classic car by a.m. There were others there, but they would leave, and he’d keep me with him to “talk.” It started out with him telling me how beautiful I was, how I inspired him, and how I made him feel alive. He would touch me and hug me after devotions and then take me to the eight o’clock staff meeting session. I began to have discord with my housemates, and I asked Bill to move me to a different house.He said the woman in charge of housing wouldn’t “let” him.Bill arranged my flight back to O’Hare so we could ride back to Headquarters in the car together.That’s when he first put his hand between my legs and felt me all the way up. My brother started hearing things and asked me about it. Bill had sworn me to silence with both guilt and fear.We have interviewed witnesses, some of whom have agreed to go on the record.