This story is true, but names (including mine) have been changed.
My boyfriend and I were meant to have a late brunch on a Sunday morning. He worked midnight shift as a police officer so he’d typically text me after getting out of work to finalize plans. It wasn’t uncommon for him to get stuck on a drunk diving case or a domestic incident and miss our scheduled dates. And I was never the type to get upset over such things. I don’t do drama.
But when 9 am rolled around and I still hadn’t heard from him I reached out in my typical manner. See, even if he was busy, a text such as “I’m feeling anxious and want to know you’re okay.” would elicit an immediate (albeit brief) response such as, “Alive, busy, safe.”
This particular Sunday I opted for a more humorous approach to asking.
“Proof of life?”
It’s the same text I send my young adult children when I want to ensure they’re safe after a night out where they opt to sleep somewhere else. It’s a text I’ll never send again.
Because this one time I asked, Gino was already gone.
I wouldn’t find out for another three hours when a friend who works in a different precinct called to tell me the news. He’s still in disbelief that he had to be the one to break it to me.
I reached out to Gino’s family hoping for some connection, some shared grief experience, and some information about what happened.
All I know is that he died while off duty at his home from a medical incident.
I attended his wake with a few close friends of mine and some of Gino’s former coworkers whom he talked about me with. I expressed condolences, shared stories about him, and his father, who’d met me before, asked me to call them anytime. I had trouble leaving because all week I’d focused on making it to that point and wasn’t sure how to move forward.
My neuromuscular condition flared from the stress, and I needed a cane to leave the wake.
After the wake, while having dinner with my friend and some other officers I recieved a text message.
“I’m writing to inform you that our family appreciated you coming this evening but it is our wish that you don’t attend tomorrow. I hope our wishes are respected as we would like tomorrow to go as smoothly as possible for Gino’s children. Again, it is our wish that you do not attend. I hope you understand.”
I responded asking who was texting and eventually learned it was Gino’s ex wife and the mother of their three children.
The other officers I was with, the friends of Gino’s I shared the text message with, were angry. I was crushed. They told me to show up anyway, that I deserved it and had no reason to hide. I could think only of the line I know she included because she knew it would keep me away “Alan’s children.”
I tried to sleep that night, and I must have for a bit because I dreamed of him.
He stood in his kitchen, where we spent time cooking together and creating meals and messes. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and he leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, his dark green eyes focused on me.
“Do you really think you’re going to find us in a church ceremony? You’re the most creative woman I know. You can think of a better way to do this. Don’t forget to take care of you.”
That was the thing about Gino. He never tried to solve my problems like so many people with a Y chromosome are inclined to do. He’d throw them back at me as a challenge. He believed in me more than I believed in myself many times.
So, I didn’t attend the funeral. I didn’t respond to his ex-wife either. There was too much risk that her anger toward me would cause trouble for his children and, since I’m not one of their support people, my presence wouldn’t help the children in any way.
Too much risk of hurting them, and zero chance of helping them made my decision easy because Gino spent his entire adult life making sure those three were cared for.
The least I could do in his death was continue to ensure that.
I spent the morning making Gino’s favorite peanut butter cookies. Their the cookies my kids and I would make him when he did something kind for us. I dropped them at his parent’s house when everyone would be at the funeral to ensure I didn’t run into anyone who didn’t want me around. received a text message from Gino’s friends after the graveside was clear of family with directions for finding it.
I sat beside him in the early fall sunshine and talked to him, and wrote and remembered. A gentleman pulled up in his car and said he was sorry for my loss. He asked if I was his wife.
“No, he was my boyfriend.”
“I haven’t missed a day since my wife died in 2017. I’m old and I’ll never love again. You take the time you need, but you then pick yourself up and remember to go and live the way he would want you to.”
I’m not sure why that man showed up at that moment, but I know there was a reason for it.
Just like there is a reason I met Gino, and a reason for everything we shared.
I could be angry with his ex wife. She’s certainly angry with me. But I don’t want to put energy there. I want to put my energy where Gino would want me to.
Being a kick-ass mom to my kids.
Building my business and writing all the words.
Maintaining my health and keeping Myasthenia Gravis and CIDP from taking over my life.
Loving my people.
Dancing to live music on Friday nights.
Loving my husband.
And that, right there is the crux of what I did wrong, why I was asked not to attend a funeral for a man I loved, and who loved me.
I’m a bisexual polyamorous woman in an open marriage. Gino knew this when he met me and decided to jump in anyway. My husband knew Gino, and Gino knew him. They both loved me, and I loved them both.
The ironic part? The woman who is angry with me for loving Gino threw him away for an affair with the landscaper. A adulteress is upset with a woman who is able to say “I’m not monogamous, and I’m going to talk about it honestly and without shame.”
How’s that for some hypocrisy?
I’m Angry With Gino.
Anger is part of grief, so let’s lay that out here too. Gino lived in a conservative, christian world. His worldview prior to meeting me included monogamous commitments as the only valid type of relationship.
Then I came in and challenged all of that.
But, he struggled with telling people in his life about me, and about our relationship. I believe in loving peope where they are, so I never pushed for more than he was willing to give.
This means that he met all of my close people, but didn’t introduce me to most of his.
He just wasn’t ready to be “out” as a man dating a polyamorous woman, and I loved him enough to respect that. Now, though, his fear means my grief is magnified for me, and minimized by the other people who loved him. I can’t help but feel angry about that, and I’ve given myself permission to scream at him while driving around in the evenings when the day becomes too much.
His Ex-wife Doesn’t Know She Gave Me a Gift
Rather than share Gino’s death with hundreds of people I got to say goodbye to him the same way I loved him. Just the two of us enjoying conversation, sunshine, and nature. I got a last picnic date.
While I sat there I felt his arms around me, and the solid expanse of his shoulders. I felt his hands whisper across my skin, and I heard him chastise me about walking in the grass barefoot. (He had some OCD tendencies when it came to germs.)
The longer I sat the calmer I felt. I was able to eat for the first time in days, and the sunshine felt like a warm hug instead of a mocking reminder of what I’ve lost.
Ex-wife’s demand that I skip the funeral gave me the gift of quietly sharing moments with Gino.
Would I have loved to see the hero’s send-off they gave him? Certainly. But that send off wasn’t for me — it was for his children so they can remember who their dad was.
It wasn’t for the ex-wife who threw him away in favor of a long affair with the landscaper.
It wasn’t for me, the complicated girlfriend-type he loved but couldn’t figure out how to fit into his life.
It wasn’t for the other officers who stood by him, shared countless shifts, and understood the weight of the badge they all carried.
It was a ceremony that marked the end of an era for those who needed to see him in that light, one last time.
But for me, his story doesn’t end with a funeral I wasn’t a part of. It continues in the lessons he taught me, in the time we shared, and in the ways I choose to remember him. Gino’s ex-wife, by asking me to stay away, inadvertently gave me a moment of closure that was far more intimate and true to the nature of our relationship than any public memorial could have been.
In that quiet solitude beside his grave, I found a peace that no words of eulogy could have offered me. It was there, under a sprawling birch tree, where I could hear his laughter in the rustle of the leaves and see his smile in the dappled sunlight. That moment was a testament to the complexity of human relationships, the capacity for love in various forms, and the undeniable truth that grief is a deeply personal journey.
As I walked away from his resting place, I carried with me not just the memories of our time together but a renewed commitment to live life on my terms, honoring what we shared by embracing the fullness of my own existence. I’ve chosen to channel my grief into action, into writing that explores the depths of human emotion, into advocacy for those whose life doesn’t fit into traditional boxes, and into being an unwavering source of strength and love for my children and my husband.
Gino’s life, and the way he chose to be with me, challenged societal norms and pushed the boundaries of conventional relationships. In death, he continues to challenge me — to be more understanding, to love more freely, and to stand firmly in my truth, no matter the judgement it may invite.
And so, to Gino, I say this: Your love has not gone unnoticed. It has sparked a fire in me that will burn brightly, illuminating the path for others who struggle to find their place in a world that often seeks to categorize and constrain. Your spirit lives on in every word I write, in every step I take towards acceptance and understanding, and in the legacy of love we built together. You may have left this world too soon, but your impact is everlasting.
Molly Frances’s writing explores what it means to be human: relationships, families, sexuality, mental health, and growth. When she isn’t writing or working with clients, she’s either on a beach, or reading (or both). She lives with her husband, a pile of children, a rescue pup, and too many books. You can also find her on www.sexwithmolly.com, and Dipsea.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Kyle Broad on Unsplash