I woke up at 3am, and my mind drifted as I tossed and turned. Five years since the summer of secrets, which began that mid-May when he came home from a Christian men’s retreat and said he was done, our marriage was over. For the first time he said he was gay.
It hadn’t begun there of course. Years before, (seven, ten? It’s all a blur,) he cheated and then cheated more, most of it unknown to me. He confessed the safest, most sane sounding sins but the most dangerous he kept to himself. He confessed just enough so I would trust him again.
There were the seasons he attended a gay father’s group in Minneapolis for “research” purposes, where he asked men who had left their families if it was worth it. We thought he was probably bi-sexual as that seemed to fit our situation. But he turned off his tracking, told half truths and in my gut I knew something was really wrong.
I lived with an underlying fear that he would leave everything we had created together. I felt powerless and panicked in those seasons. I lived in a mental fog of what ifs and what thens. I leaned on my faith and my friends, though I only barely hinted at what loomed right under the surface of my smile.
Up until that May his question went unanswered. Cycle after yearly cycle, he chose me. He chose our rhythms and our family. He chose the best trauma therapy and a masters program and we dreamed together about walking with others through the same questions. I felt relieved and hopeful.
And then at that men’s retreat he met two male couples who told him leaving everything was worth it. They didn’t know him. They didn’t know me. They only knew their own stories, but it was what he’d been waiting to hear and when he came home he said we were done. He spoke the words, claimed the label, and the summer of secrets began.
We pretended all was fine, but something had shifted. His eyes were darker when he looked at me. Our kids could sense the tension. Mostly, he was just gone.
I gathered my prayer warriors near and far, and honestly that’s probably how I survived. I no longer prayed to save my marriage. I prayed to survive the end of it. I prayed God wouldn’t waste my pain. I prayed he would make it worth it.
I used that summer to make plans and crunch numbers. The more I did the math, the better I felt. I even dared to dream of the future and imagine what kind of good life God could possibly have for me even as all my past dreams dissipated around me.
I kept his secret through the finish of his summer internship at a Christian counseling center so he could graduate from Liberty with a masters in marriage and family therapy. I kept his secret for the weekend celebrating my parents 50th wedding anniversary at a lake resort with my whole family. I kept his secret for the last weekend family church camp at Big Sandy with my sister, parents and even our kids’ significant others.
Our kids went off to summer camps and conferences and we didn’t know when or how to tell them. Before? After? I began redecorating our bedroom just for me, and questions arose, which I deflected. I sold all of his hobby stuff so he’d have money to leave. For his sake, I kept the secret.
We finally told the kids at the beginning of August. He was leaving and moving to Arizona in one month. Megan moved to Duluth for her freshman year, Mitchell moved to Mankato for his second year, and on Labor Day, when all our kids were home for the holiday weekend, he hugged everyone goodbye, gave one last emotional “I love you all,” and waved at the neighbor. His upgraded pipes roared to life and announced his exit from our lives.
Robb rode off on his motorcycle with only his saddle bags packed.
As we watched from the window, the air left the room. I don’t know how else to describe it. Those of us left, looked at each other in stunned silence.
Except for holidays, it was now just Madison and I left in the house. A family of five down to two. The summer of secrets was over.
There was grief, but my fear was gone. My greatest fear had come to pass and I felt relief.
It’s 3am and the memories rolled with me as I turned in bed and closed the distance between myself and Randy. I clung to him and tears formed in my eyes. He rolled toward me a bit, “bad dreams?” he asked.
“No, bad memories.”
“I was dreaming about something in Barbados,” he mumbled. I laughed, sleepily.
“Of course you did.” King of nonsensical dreams, he is.
But even he couldn’t have dreamed US up, this very real dream we live. He held me for a long time and I fell back to sleep.
Memories live in ones body, the body keeps the score, they say, and sometimes I still feel them and I can’t believe I survived the enormous weight of their reality.
But the fear is long gone. My body literally feels the relief.
I survived my greatest fear.
I’m safe.
Not just safe,
immensely loved.
And there are no more secrets.
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