Girl's Night Out

Surprise! Your Wife is Gay

The Straight Spouse Network (SSN) is an international organization that provides personal, confidential support and information to heterosexual spouses/partners, current or former, of gay, lesbian, bisexual or trans gender mates and mixed-orientation couples for constructively resolving coming-out problems. SSN also offers research-based information about spouse, couple, and family issues and resources to other family members, professionals, community organizations, and the public. SSN is the only support network of its kind in the world.

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Len's Story

In 1986, I married my best friend and the person I was to grow old with. The woman I had my children by. The woman with whom I shared my innermost being with and whom I thought I knew better than anyone. Little did I know that I did not know anything……..

The summer of 2000 went on as summers did, with me working and my wife having time off, since she drove a school bus. It was the perfect job because she could be there for the kids. This summer, however, things were amiss.

We were different…. no, she was different. She was spending an outrageous amount of time on the computer, but I thought she was instant messaging friends and shopping. She was coming to bed later and later each night. I thought it strange, but figured no biggie; she is off for the summer and just doesn't need to get to bed when I needed to. One day, she mentioned she had found a friend online who had a lot in common with her and had three kids of her own.

“O.K.,” I said, “That's cool.” And so she and her newfound friend were hanging out, going out, and having a grand ol' time. (Oh, how dumb and foolish I feel now.)

One night, we planned to get together with some friends from church at a local restaurant that had a little band. My wife met me there, showing up with “the friend.”

I was not feeling well and after dinner said we should go home. She told me to go home; she would stay. I went home, fell asleep, and woke about 2:00 am. My wife was not home, it was unlike her to be out that late, and she was not answering her cell phone. I feared something had happened.

I drove back to the restaurant as they were closing. I knew a guy in the band and asked if he had seen my wife. He went silent and then said he needed to tell me something. He then proceeded to tell me how MY WIFE, THE MOTHER OF MY CHILDREN had seductively danced, made out with, and carried on with her “friend.”

I was sick and stunned. I went home and waited. When she showed up I asked her what the hell was going on and said I had spoken with the guy in the band. She broke down, said she was drunk and confused, and the friend made a move on her. I asked her what else took place, and she swore that there was no more than the kissing. I threw her pillow and blanket out of our bedroom, locked myself in, and went to sleep. That was August 15, 2000.

The next morning, I thought long and hard about my vows and the kids and everything we had been through and decided not to throw away 14 years due to a mistake. I told her how I felt and that we would work through this. “But,” I said, ”there is no way that you are ever to see or talk to that 'friend' ever again.”

She agreed. As days went on, she tried negotiating various ways of allowing contact with her friend, via email or instant message, and I said no way. Her next step was to get nasty. She told me I had no right to tell her who she could and could not see. I told her, “Either you want to be married to me or you want to be with her, but you cannot have it both ways. If you want the latter, pack your bags and leave, but understand that once you walk out that door, you will never come back.”

On September 1, 2000, she did just that. With no warning or chance to explain to our kids, she packed her bags, told them she was leaving, and asked them to do the same. They were, needless to say, shocked and stunned and crying. They refused to go with her (and for that I will be eternally grateful) and off she went. When the screen door shut, I realized that our lives had just changed forever.

My wife died that day. The person I married, who was caring and thoughtful and loved our kids, was no longer here. Her face and body were evident, but all shards of that woman were gone. She became erratic and moody with severe emotional swings, and her parental sense was completely gone. She was so self absorbed that she thought only of herself and her newfound life as a lesbian. Our kids were made to take it or leave it. Their first weekend with her she took them to the now-girlfriend's house.

I filed for divorce and began a four-year battle. She told the neighbors she left because I beat her. She called the police and said them same thing. She accused me of a gay relationship when I invited a man and his two kids to live with us after their home burned down and they had no place to live. She broke into the family home several times by kicking the door in, tried opening credit cards in my name so she could use them, and caused irreparable harm to both kids. My daughter has not spoken to her mother in over six years. My son sees her once a week for two hours. This is the extent of her relationship with her children now.

I am happy to say I retained custody of both kids -- unheard of in my conservative county where mothers are almost always granted custody -- and got to keep the house.

Now I am a 44-year-old single dad of two teenagers. While I would not trade this for anything, I am angered that I was put in this position. She walked away leaving me not only to pick up the pieces, but also to mend them and heal our children, try to be a mother figure in some form, and wonder what will become of my life now. I do not communicate with her unless it's necessary and related to the kids and only through email. I will never forgive her for what she has done to me but mostly what she did to two wonderful kids who deserved none of this.

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A Secret Promise Kept

The appointment I was on my way to was very important; I was very late and very lost. With my male ego in check, I began to look for a place to ask directions, preferably a gas station. Since I had been crisscrossing the city, my gas gauge was perilously low and time was of the essence.

I spotted the amber glow of light outside the local fire station. What better place to ask directions?

I quickly stepped from my car and crossed the street to the station. All three overhead doors were open and I could see red fire engines with their doors ajar, chrome shining, waiting in anticipation for the bell to ring.

As I stepped inside, the aroma of the station assaulted me. It was the smell of the hoses drying in the tower, the oversized rubber boots, jackets and helmets. These smells, mixed in with the freshly washed floors and polished trucks, created that mysterious scent associated with all fire stations. Slowing down, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and was transported back to my youth, to the fire station where my father worked for 35 years as head of fire maintenance.

I looked down to the end of the fire station and there it stood, sparkling gold to the sky, the fire pole. One day my dad let me and my older brother Jay slide down the pole, twice. In the corner of the station was the “creeper” used to slide under trucks when repairing them. Dad would say, “Hold on” and he would spin me around until I was dizzy as a drunken sailor. It was better than any Tilt-A-Whirl ride I have ever been on.

Next to the creeper was an old soda machine that had the classic Coca-Cola logo on it. It still dispensed the original green 10-ounce bottles, but they were now 35 cents compared with the 10 cents they were back then. A trip to the soda machine was always the highlight of the visit with Dad to the station, my very own bottle of soda.

When I was 10 years old, I took two of my friends by the station to show off my dad and see if we could weasel some sodas out of him. After showing them around the station, I asked Dad if we could each have a soda before we went home for lunch.

I detected just the slightest hesitation in my father’s voice that day, but he said “Sure” and gave us each a dime. We raced the soda machine to see if our bottle had a cap with the illustrious star on the inside.

What a lucky day! My cap had a star. I was only two caps away from sending for my very own Davy Crockett hat.

We all thanked my father and headed home for lunch and a summer afternoon of swimming.

I came home early that day from the lake, and as I walked down the hall I heard my parents talking. Mom seemed upset with Dad, and then I heard my name mentioned: “You should have just said you didn’t have the money for sodas. Brian would have understood. That money was for your lunch. The kids have to understand that we don’t have any extra money and you need to have your lunch.”

My dad, in his usual way, just shrugged it off.

Before my mother knew I had overheard the conversation, I hurried up the stairs to the room I shared with my four brothers.

As I emptied my pockets, the bottle cap that had caused so many problems fell to the floor. I picked it up and was ready to put it with the other seven when I realized how great a sacrifice my father had made for that bottle cap.

That night I made a promise of repayment. Someday I would be able to tell my father that I knew of the sacrifice he made that afternoon and so many other days, and I would never forget him for it.

My father had his first heart attack at the young age of 47. I guess his lifestyle of working three jobs to support the nine of us finally caught up to him. On the evening of my parents’ 25th anniversary, surrounded by all his family, the biggest, loudest, strongest of us all showed the first crack in the armor we as children thought would always be impenetrable.

Over the next eight years, my father battled back and forth, suffering another three heart attacks until he ended up with a pacemaker.

One afternoon my dad’s old blue Plymouth wagon broke down, and he called me for a ride to take him to the doctor for his annual checkup. As I pulled into the station, I saw my dad outside with all the other firemen crowded around a brand-new pickup truck. It was a deep blue Ford pickup, and it was a beauty. I mentioned to my dad how nice it was, and he commented that someday he would down a truck like that.

We both laughed. This was always his dream – and it always seemed so unattainable.

At this point in my personal life, I was doing quite well in business, as were all my brothers. We offered to buy him a truck, but as he so aptly put it, “If I don’t buy it, I won’t feel like it’s mine.”

As my dad stepped out of the doctor’s office I figured the gray pasty look on his face was from being poked, prodded and pricked with needles.

“Let’s go,” was all he said.

As we got into the car, I knew something was wrong. We drove off in silence and I knew Dad would tell me what was wrong in his own way.

I took the long way back to the station. As we drove by our old house, the ball field, lake and corner store, my dad started talking about the past and the memories each place held.

That’s when I knew he was dying.

He looked at me and nodded.

I understood.

We stopped at Cabot’s Ice Cream and had an ice cream together for the first time alone in 15 years. We talked, really talked that day. He told me how proud he was of all of us and that he wasn’t afraid of dying. His fear was that he was going to be away from my mother.

I chuckled at him; never had a man been more in love with a woman than my dad.

He made me promise that day that I would never tell anyone of his impending death. As I agreed to his wishes, I knew that it was one of the toughest secrets I would ever have to keep.

At the time, my wife and I were looking for a new car or truck. My father knew the salesman at Cochituate Motors in Wayland, so I asked him if he would go with me to see what I could get for a trade-in toward a new car or truck.

As we entered the showroom, and I started talking with the salesman, I spotted Dad looking at the most beautiful, fully loaded chocolate-brown metal flake pickup truck he or I had ever seen. I saw my dad run his hand over the truck like a sculptor checking his work.

“Dad, I think I should buy a truck. I want to look at something small that is good on gas mileage.”

As the salesman left the showroom to get the dealer plate, I suggested that we take the brown truck out for a ride.

“You can’t afford this,” he said.

“I know that, and you know that, but the salesman doesn’t,” I said.

As we pulled out onto Route 27, with my father behind the wheel, we both laughed like a couple of kids at the fast one we had pulled off. He drove for 10 minutes, commenting about how beautifully it rode while I played with all the bells and whistles.

When we returned to the showroom, we took out a small blue Sundowner truck. My dad commented that this was a better truck for commuting because of gas and all the miles I would be driving. I agreed with him and we returned and finalized the deal with the salesman.

I called my dad a few nights later and asked him if he would come with me to pick up the truck. I think he agreed so quickly just to get one final look at “his brown truck,” as he called it.

When we pulled into the dealer’s yard, there was my little blue Sundowner with a sold sticker on it. Next to it was the brown pickup, all washed and shiny, with a big SOLD sign on the window.

I glanced over at my father and saw the disappointment register on his face as he said, “Someone bought himself a beautiful truck.”

I just nodded and said, “Dad, would you go inside and tell the salesman I’ll be right in as soon as I park the car?” As my father walked past the brown truck, he ran his hand along it and I could see the look of disappointment pass over him again.

I pulled my car around to the far side of the building and looked out the window at the man who had given up everything for his family. I watched as the salesman sat him down, handed him a set of keys to his truck – the brown one – and explained that it was for him from me and this was our secret.

My dad looked out the window, our eyes met, and we both nodded and laughed at each other.

I was waiting outside my house when my dad pulled up that night. As he stepped out of his truck, I gave him a big hug and a kiss and told him how much I loved him, and reminded him this was our secret.

We went for a drive that evening. Dad said he understood the truck, but what was the significance of the Coca-Cola bottle cap with the star in the center taped to the steering wheel?

By Brian Keefe