The recent coverage of the abuse and death of Charlenni Ferreira brought back vivid memories for me.

As the fourth child in my family, I was 5 years old when my mother put me in charge of my 2-year-old brother, Herby. If Herby cried too loudly when he didn't get his way, I was whipped. As I ducked and dodged the sting of a red rubber tube, my mother would yell, "I told you to keep him quiet!"

If Herby wouldn't take a nap, I got another whipping. "Didn't I tell you to make him go to sleep?" And always a frightening warning: "And don't you ever let it happen again."

I have clear memories of my patting Herby on his back until his eyes closed and his breathing became even, then gently removing my hand and holding my breath as I tiptoed from the room.

When he was 5 years old and I was 8, I had to take Herby to kindergarten at our school around the corner. He hated it, and sometimes, when the teacher wasn't looking, he would escape and run the two blocks back home. When I came home for lunch, Mom would be waiting for me behind the vestibule door with the rubber tube in her hand. Holding me by the arm, her beady eyes flashing, she would beat me and scream, "Didn't I tell you not to let Herby leave school?"

Once, while she was whipping me, I finally got up the courage to sob, "But, Mom, he was the one who came back home. Why don't you whip him?" Her response was, "I don't see him now, but I'll get to him later." Herby was standing right there, laughing.

One afternoon, after I tearfully returned to school without any lunch, my third-grade teacher noticed the swollen welts and old scars on my arms and legs, and sent a note to my mother. The whippings stopped.

Many years later, I found that note in a buffet drawer, and I still have it. This is what it says:

Dear Mrs. Love:

You have a darling little girl. Be kind to her. And one day you will be proud of her.

Throughout our adulthoods, I felt the responsibility to continue to look after Herby - not because I had to, but because I loved him. Eventually, because my three older siblings were unavailable to do so, I became the caretaker for my mother and my brother.

In 1978, their health quickly declined at the same time. Full of anger and alcohol, Herby died at the age of 49. Mom died five weeks later. I put his urn in her casket and buried them together.

In 2007, at the age of 81, I graduated from Chestnut Hill College with a master's degree in marriage and family therapy. As the oldest graduate in the history of the school, I received a standing ovation.

Teachers, friends, neighbors, keep watch. All manner of abuse happens in secret, even in "good" families such as mine - two working parents, nice home, well respected in the community.

One of you might save a life. I was blessed to have a teacher who saved mine.

Jean Love Robinson lives in Philadelphia.