input with options: As a mother, I'm right now navigating the hardest moment with my two daughters and my son I was raped at 15 and molested by a teacher from 1516 it took 13 years of fighting before I saw any justice for those crimes and it paled in comparison to having to live with that trauma for the last 25 years. I thought I had moved past it for the most part, thanks to supportive family and lots of counseling and medication to treat my treatment resistant depression I've struggled over the last 25 years. I will be 40 this year. My son, the oldest, turned 15 this year the same age I was when it began. I see how young he is and recognized for the first time just how young I had been when I was abused. That was really hard for me, emotionally. Now, I look at my two girls, ages 9 and 3, and worry for their safety - probably more than I should, but understandable given what I went through. We have had lots of "body safety" talks and my older daughter understands the very basics of what I went through, mainly because I have spent a great part of this past year writing a memoir about my experiences and have begun speaking publicly about what I went through and what it means to be a survivor. This is challenging because it's hard to talk about and explain to a child in a way that they understand without making them fear the world. I struggle with this often. I've chosen to use it as an opportunity to teach them about activism and the power of speaking the truth, what it means to be a survivor instead of a victim. I hope they grow up and see just how strong their mother is and how she has worked in the community to raise awareness and help others. Question: Who was raped? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- The mom
- The dad
- The son
- not enough information
output: The mom

Q: The parking lot for the Center for Addictions Treatment was in the back of the building, as was the front door. The entrance opened on the only addition to the original farmhouse, a smallish room where the receptionist sat at one of two desks. The area was called the secretarial pod. The entrance to Ray's office, both medication and technician area, was right behind the secretary's desk. To the left was another door, kept closed, which led down the hallway to the client sleeping rooms, the dining room and the kitchen. There was a phone right inside the front door (or the back door, depending upon who you asked). When Ray wanted to smoke, he would lean out the front door, propping it open with his back in such a way that he could see down the hallway if he propped that door open as well and answer the phone should it ring. Smoking was prohibited inside the building, a policy which grew increasingly unpopular with both the staff and the clients as the course of the year wore on. By December, Ray would have to do weekly fire drills around three a.m. as a way of politely reminding his anti-social and policy impaired population that any building more than a century old was actually little more than well formed kindling. After enough of those, any problem he had been having with people smoking in the building usually went away. Given the right incentives, even this population could be relatively self-regulating. The telephone rang before Ray was even half-finished with his cigarette. "Admit it now, Ray." She sounded petulant. "Fine, I admit it. Do I get the booby prize?" "That depends on whether you intended a double entendre or not." "Of course I did." "Then you lose. Get your mind out of the gutter." He took a drag on his cigarette, then made himself sound insulted. "I'm not the one sitting around naked and calling strange men in the middle of the night." Question: How long was the conversation Ray had on the phone? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Until 3 a.m.
- A couple of minutes
- A year

A: A couple of minutes

The First of March is my most hated day of the year. Every year, without fail, I feel a little bit depressed on the First of March. I absolutely love summer. I love the hot weather, the skimpy clothes, the summer fruits and the party seasons. I only have good memories of summer - Christmas time, six weeks holidays when in school then three months off whilst at uni. In my eyes, there is not one bad thing about summer. That is why I hate the First of March. Yes, it is still hot. Yes, my summer fruits are still in season and I can still wear my skimpy clothes, but, in my mind, it means that winter is near. The weather is only going to get colder and my favourite time of the year is official over. In an attempt to lift my end of Summer blues I decided to give myself a bright, cheerful manicure. The colour I choose was a luscious purple cream from butter LONDON called Molly-Coddled. It was just about opaque after one coat, just ever so slightly streaky. Two coats, completely opaque and streak free. If you haven't previously heard of butter LONDON, it is a nail polish brand with a massive range of high fashion colours and it's products are formulated without the use of the harmful ingredients like Formaldehyde, Toluene, DBP or Parabens. butter LONDON was the first company to sell 3 Free nail lacquer in the United States. Formaldehyde is one of the biggest nasties that I make a real effort to avoid. I did my PhD in Forensics and spent a lot of time watching autopsies. Once the body parts have been harvested, they are stored in Formaldehyde to be preserved. The Formaldehyde alters the proteins in the tissue to stop them breaking down - fine for the dead, not something I want to use whilst I am alive. It is nasty, nasty stuff. Question: Why doesn't the author like March 1st? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- It means Christmas is still months away.
- not enough information
- It means it will just get colder and colder.
- It means no more summer fruit.

Answer:
It means it will just get colder and colder.