by Omar Sharif
Other than Bubbie and Zadie’s marriage, I’d been surrounded by several failed marriages and relationships. Dad had been married three times by that point. Mom had multiple failed relationships and was single. And as for Grandfather, he’d only married once but kept company with numerous women. I didn’t want to be like that or make the same mistakes. After our first two dates had gone well, I started to think that Gabriel could be the one to last a lifetime. Gabriel was from my home city and we happened to revolve around the same network of people. Some of my friends were engaged, others married, and several of them already had kids. I, too, wanted a monogamous relationship with the right person. I wanted to experience love, happiness, and acceptance.
When I wasn’t with Mom, Gabriel and I spent a great deal of time together, and it didn’t take long before we became more serious. Every couple of nights, I’d make up an excuse to get out of the house just so I could watch a movie or hang out with him. Then it became daily. Dating Gabriel felt revolutionary.
I appreciated how open Gabriel was when he’d talk about his family, friends, career—his life in general. He’d say and do whatever he wanted, and he didn’t seem to care what anyone thought. He had incredible taste, and I was learning more about style and fashion just by being around him. Before I met him, I didn’t care about clothes or cars. I always had what I needed, and that was more than enough. I didn’t want material things because, frankly, I didn’t care for them, but Gabriel was materialistic, and his cravings began to rub off on me. His impressive watch collection drew me closer to his lifestyle. Before long, I wanted one, too, and I found myself trying to keep up with his taste. When I was out shopping with Mom, she’d catch me eyeing watches in display cases. She probably assumed the sudden interest came from being around Grandfather and his friends.
I was generous with Gabriel because I wanted him to be happy—and because I thought he was out of my league. If he mentioned something that he wanted, I’d buy it for him. Although it happened less frequently, I thought it was nice that he’d buy me gifts, too. When Gabriel and I met, I was twenty-two, and he was a few years older. Gabriel wasn’t formally educated, but he was well-traveled, cultured, and he didn’t have to hide me from his family or friends. His mom and sister knew and accepted that Gabriel was gay. When he took me to meet them, his sister jokingly asked me, “What do you even see in him?” It was the freedom.
Gabriel was a mystery, and there were times I sensed he was lost and hiding his truth or secrets—whatever they were. I was patient because I believed time would expose them. Our time alone was intense yet comforting. Gabriel became an immediate distraction from my stress, and he was beginning to make a difference in the way I handled my mother’s anxiety.
I wasn’t sure what to think when Gabriel invited me to his family’s estate in the Laurentian Mountains. We’d only been hanging out for eight weeks, but I wanted to experience what it would be like to have that kind of time alone with him. Sneaking around, sitting in a dark theater, or pretending we were friends in public was not my idea of building a relationship, certainly not a healthy one. Grandfather didn’t hide his relationships; he was who he was. I wanted to be true to who I was, so I took the opportunity to feel normal, if only for a day or two.
The next afternoon, Gabriel and I drove the scenic route to the mountains. When I glanced in my rearview mirror, I saw the world I left behind as I entered another—just as I had in Mykonos. His family’s cottage was located near the top of a mountain and the view from the driveway was strikingly beautiful. When we went inside, I thought I’d walked through the doors of a Ralph Lauren showroom. While I was admiring the decor, Gabriel was placing wood logs in the imposing fireplace. He grabbed a few pages of newspaper next to the cabinet, crumpled them up, and shoved them beneath the logs. Then he picked up a small box of matches from the mantle, crouched down, and struck one, delicately placing it against the newspaper. When the flame caught, it quickly spread to the dry wood, and in moments the fire crackled and burned with passionate fury. The room was aglow. Floating sparks trailed up the chimney to the sound of Gabriel’s applause. He spun toward me playfully and reached for my hand.
“Look at this view,” he said.
“I know. I—” Gabriel placed his finger against my lips and kissed me.
Blanketed with thick snow, the mountains were breathtaking. Everything was perfect and still. Holding my hand, he led me downstairs, opened a closet, and looked at my feet. Gabriel handed me a pair of snowshoes and said, “Let’s take a sunset walk.” I observed Gabriel take in the crisp air as if he needed it to live. He was more relaxed than I’d ever seen him before. We took in the view while walking along a trail that led to an overlook of a beautiful lake. He pointed out the mountains he used to ski and told me about his favorite restaurants in the towns neatly nestled nearby. A half hour later, we went back inside, removed our coats and shoes, and returned to the living room. Gabriel disappeared. When he returned, he had two glasses and a bottle of wine that we shared in front of the fire. For the first time, with only the glow of the fire lighting our faces, Gabriel said, “I love you.” And I loved him, too.
Our time together was uninterrupted, and it was the first time I’d spent the entire night wrapped in Gabriel’s arms. The next morning, he made me breakfast, and after a late morning walk, I told him I needed to get back to Mom; she thought I was up north with Gill.
Given all the turmoil and uncertainty, it felt like being with Gabriel was the safest place for me, but the more I got to know him, the less I was convinced. He was good for me during that time, and really good in bed, but he wasn’t as caring as I’d hoped for. Other than an occasional “How’s your mom?” he didn’t show genuine interest. I didn’t want to drag my worries into that relationship, so I made a mental note and let it go. I needed to enjoy being happy—and marvel in what felt like my first love.
Every so often, I’d run into some of the mothers of the kids who’d bullied me. They’d see me doing charity work at the hospital or helping others in some capacity. Unlike their kids, the moms were always nice to me. They’d stop and talk to me, ask how I was doing, or go out of their way to say hello. After I’d been with Gabriel for a few months, one of those mothers came up to me and said, “I heard you’re dating my hairstylist. I told him that if he hurts you, he’d be done in this town.” I didn’t realize how much people knew about me or that they even cared, but it made me wonder how much my family actually knew.
It was already March, and I’d been sneaking around with Gabriel for a couple of months. I was tired of the lies, of hiding and making excuses. I wanted the kind of support Gabriel had from his mom. It was time to come out to Mom. If I wanted my three worlds to merge into one, I needed to be honest so I could be comfortable as myself. Honesty and authenticity are inextricably linked. I wanted Mom to know about Gabriel, but more importantly, I wanted my mother to know the truth about her son.
I’d already met Gabriel’s family, and I wanted him to meet my mother. Besides, people were starting to hear that I was dating him. I was scared but resolved to tell Mom. I was concerned about the way Dad would take it, too, but for now I decided to address one world, and one parent, at a time. As for Mom, I hoped she could get through it. I needed my mother to be accepting of me. It would kill me if she saw me the way she saw others in my community. We weren’t freaks. Maybe this reality would help her see us all differently.
When I walked into the apartment that afternoon, Mom was sitting at the kitchen counter flipping through her day-planner and writing notes. She seemed agitated, and I assumed she wasn’t feeling well. A few minutes later, she put the pen down and looked at me as though she already knew something.
“Where were you last night?” she asked, flipping the hair of her wig off her shoulder.
“I was with Gabriel.”
“And he is?”
“Someone I’m dating,” I said, finally telling the truth.
Mom closed her planner, and the tension
grew.
“This—this is going to kill Bubbie! She’s too old to hear this!”
“She survived the Nazis, and this is going to kill her?”
“You’re going to kill me—I’m sick! Don’t you care?”
“Mom, please!”
I tried to look away. I couldn’t let her see what she was doing to me.
“And don’t tell your father! Don’t tell anyone! God help you if your father or the rest of Egypt finds out. You’ve always caused me stress. That’s probably how I got this—”
“No! No! I’m the nurse! I’m not the one who made you sick. I’m the one who’s always taken care of you.”
She snatched her planner from the counter and looked at me as if she had failed me as a mother. She shook her head and walked toward her bedroom, seething.
“This is why I couldn’t tell you,” I called after her, but she didn’t respond. She closed the door to her room.
After all those years of hiding, my biggest fears had come true. The reason I hadn’t come out was that there was only one person I needed to accept me, and the moment I finally had the courage to tell her, she didn’t. My mother had always been my biggest advocate and protector. She claimed to love me unconditionally, and I had believed her. I always did everything I could for her, but when I told her my truth, none of it mattered. This was the red line, and she withdrew her love and acceptance. I wasn’t just disappointed in Mom, but in humanity, and in that moment, I had nothing left I wanted to say. In the same way I had as a bullied kid with suicidal thoughts, I curled into a fetal position on the sofa and tried to sleep through it. That was my way of dealing with pain. Some call it depression.
Mom and I existed in uncomfortable silence for a few weeks. She went through her routine without speaking to me, and I didn’t say anything to her. It was hurtful, but I’d said everything that was necessary. I’d finally shared the one significant thing that gave me freedom from hiding, lying, and feeling less than human. I wanted to believe that if my mother accepted me, it wouldn’t matter if others didn’t.
At some point, Mom must have told Anne, because she came over and worked to rebuild the bridge, but it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t what Mom wanted, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt her if I told her another truth. “There are two arguments for people being gay: nature or nurture. Either way, it’s your fault. It’s either how you raised me or it’s the genetics you gave me,” I told her. She retorted with something about the likelihood that I’d get AIDS and die, assuring me that only a lifetime of hardship, loneliness, and misery awaited me. “Just get married and have kids—be normal!” she said.
I was devastated, yet Mom was the one who was grieving—as though some nonexistent straight son was dead, and she was left with me. Her response didn’t change who I was or how I felt; it just sucked the air out of my lungs, and in that moment, I thought maybe if I had killed myself way back when, it would have been easier for her than this.
After a few months of dating, things began to change with Gabriel. He went to Mexico with friends, and when he returned, he was different. We became less physical and slightly less communicative. Since Gabriel was the first person I had truly dated and loved, I wasn’t ready to lose him, especially after it seemed I’d lost Mom. I tried to get his attention by working out more. I bought him gifts regularly and worked to keep up conversation between us, but he wasn’t responding. I didn’t know how to deal with it when Gabriel began withdrawing a little at a time, so I was persistent in finding other ways to keep his attention.
I went to see my cousin Lisa in May and asked her to borrow a thousand dollars so I could take Gabriel to the Turks and Caicos Islands, thinking it would make things better between us. At first, he was excited about going, and then, the night before we were to leave, Gabriel called me and said, “I don’t think we should go. I think it’s over.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked dismissively.
“It’s not you, it’s me. I’m—I’m a mess, Omar,” he replied flatly.
“No, you’re not,” I insisted. “You’re just stressed or something. That’s why you need this vacation. Let’s just go. We’ll have a good time and things will get better.”
Gabriel kept talking, but I wasn’t hearing him, largely because I wasn’t prepared to accept what he had to say. I knew something was going on with him, and it wasn’t good, but it didn’t have anything to do with me. I didn’t want to tell people we hadn’t gone on the trip that I had paid for. Besides, I was committed to making it work between us. After a round of convincing, Gabriel agreed, and we went on the trip.
Turks and Caicos should have ignited something in Gabriel. The clear waters, powder-white sand beaches, magnificent restaurants, and exciting nightlife offered a perfect romantic vacation for us. But the sweeping views and incredible backdrop didn’t change him. As soon as we hit the beach, I could tell by his behavior that I’d wasted my time. He stared at the ocean as if he were somewhere without me. Gabriel had told me how he felt, but my heart felt something different.
A few hours later, we went back to our room to change for dinner. We had plans to go to a nightclub that evening. I was hopeful the energy in the club would lift his spirits, and we’d have fun dancing and laughing the way we had before he’d gone to Mexico. While I was deciding what to wear, Gabriel took off his clothes, flung them over a chair, and went to take a shower. A small plastic bag with white powder dropped out of his shorts pocket onto the floor next to his shoes. I bent down and picked it up. My mouth fell open while I waited for my thoughts to catch up. My family had raised me to be against drugs, and until now, I’d never seen cocaine. Instantly, everything made sense. I wasn’t surprised that Gabriel used. He was the cool, former model guy that had his own collection of secrets. I hadn’t seen them, because I wasn’t ready to accept them. With him, everything needed to be fast and fun. When it wasn’t, he’d move on and just let whatever it was go. It was clear to me his behavior wasn’t the same, but I still didn’t want to believe cocaine was the only cause.
When I heard the shower shut off, I contemplated putting the cocaine back on the floor, pretending not to have seen it. I decided it wasn’t the time or place to tell Gabriel what I wanted to say, because it would make things worse. But I had to say something; I needed to see his reaction. I sat waiting on the edge of the bed, trying to look unfazed by my discovery. Gabriel came out of the bathroom with a thick, white towel wrapped around his waist and saw his packet of cocaine hanging between my fingers.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Now you’re going through my things?” he said, sounding suddenly defensive.
“Of course not. But should I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“This fell out of your pocket, and I picked it up,” I replied. “So, what is it?”
“What does it look like?” he said, removing his towel.
“I didn’t know you did blow.”
“Is that a problem for you?” he said, waiting for my reaction.
“No,” I said, trying to sound cool. “I was wondering why you didn’t offer me any,” I lied.
Gabriel shrugged. “Really? You’re not the type.”
“Where’d you get it?” I questioned, to forestall him asking if I wanted to try it.
“Here, at the resort.”
“You know someone here?”
“No. It’s everywhere. It’s easy to get.”
“Okay. But why?” I asked naively.
He slipped into a pair of pale-blue boxer briefs and sat in the chair across from me. He lowered his head into his hands, as if he wanted to confess something. Gabriel closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he began. That night, he opened up and shared more about his life. It was difficult to determine if he was making excuses for using or if he was involved in something more sinister. Maybe he was hoping to scare me away with the story about his stepfather’s role in an organized crime ring. After what I heard, I couldn’t tell if he was lying.
On the way home, we had a stop in Miami. For whatever reason, security flagged my bags for additional drug enforcement screening. I spotted Gabriel leisurely walking away toward a bench, disconnecting himself from what was happening. No one would have thought we were together—I felt like I was throwing my life away for someone who maybe didn’t care as much about me as I did for them. Sitting in a room by myself while they rummaged through my belongings was infuriating. I didn’t know if there were traces of cocaine on my things or what would happen if there were. After they cleared my luggage, Gabriel never apologized, took responsibility, or mentioned anything about it.
We made it back to Montreal without further incident. Although things weren’t any better with Mom, all I wanted to do was go home. When I dropped Gabriel off at his place, he grabbed his suitcase from the trunk and gave me a kiss on the cheek. When I got home, I sent him a message telling him I was glad we survived the trip.
The next day, I called Gabriel, but he didn’t respond. I went to his house to check on him, but he wasn’t there. A week later, Gabriel ended things between us by sending me a text. Emotionally, I was a mess; my heart was broken, and it wasn’t solely because of him. I’d given almost everything I had to my mother, and Gabriel got everything that was left. I didn’t want to end up divorced or alone like my parents, so I’d poured my heart and soul into that relationship. I wanted to be with someone capable of loving and appreciating me as I was, and I believed he did. Gabriel was my first I love you and he was the one to say it first, which made the breakup even harder. I never knew a pain so deep or cutting. I didn’t have Mom to lean on, so I kept the pain—from both of them—to myself. I went through each day as though everything were fine from the outside, but on the inside, I was utterly destroyed.