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Submissive White Lesbian Stepmom Stories
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My mom sat me down and said that if anyone asked about them, I should say that they were cousins.
Mar 15, 2018, 09:15 AM EDT | Updated Jun 3, 2022
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Part of HuffPost Personal. ©2022 BuzzFeed, Inc. All rights reserved.
In the spring of 1984 my single mother started having sleepovers. I noticed because I was seven and we shared a bedroom in our small rented apartment, so I could see a new person sleeping in the bottom bunk. Her name was Carol and she taught fifth grade in a nearby rural Arkansas town.
As the months went by we saw a lot of Carol. Then, when the lease came up on our apartment, my mother told me we were moving into her rustic house on a section of an isolated women’s commune 10 miles outside of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, far from water mains and electricity. I was excited for the adventure of endless trees, creeks and animals, but I had no idea what two women living together in mid ’80s Arkansas ― an hour’s drive away from Ku Klux Klan headquarters ― actually meant.
I wasn’t told about the true nature of their relationship; as summer neared its end and Carol prepared to go back to work, she and my mother sat me down and said that if anyone asked about them, I should say that they were cousins. Otherwise, Carol could be fired. On the first day of school the bus driver asked. I told him, and he shook his head.
Many more people asked after that. Through the questioning my seven-year-old awareness became more sophisticated and intuitive. I picked up on the homophobic comments and verbal abuse that was slung around my school, as it is in many small town schools in America, and elsewhere. I picked up on words like “faggot” and “gaywad” ― and the malice behind them ― and I froze. It had never been voiced but it was clear now that my mother was gay, and gay people were hated.
My mother slept in a bed with a woman every night and didn’t pray at the local Baptist or Methodist church like most of my peers’ families. And if I let anyone know about it, not only would Carol lose her teaching job, but actual harm could be done to them. Equally terrifying, I could be singled out at school.
In his book “ Radical Relations: Lesbian Mothers, Gay Fathers, and Their Children in the United States since World War II ,” historian Daniel Rivers explains how gay parents in the ’70s and ’80s lived in constant fear of losing custody of their children. They either had to publicly challenge the perception that they were harming their children or couldn’t raise them properly in a gay household — or go underground in closed communities to lives of secrecy.
Exposure in areas of the U.S. that were less tolerant was potentially life-threatening. In our case, we didn’t have to worry about my father trying to separate me from my mother. He had died suddenly a year before she met Carol, and before his death he and my mother had been separated. But there were people whom my mother feared would try to take me away, if they knew about her life.
So I zipped the secret up tight, cocooned myself in it and didn’t let any of it peek through the cracks. To maintain this level of secrecy I had to create stories— many stories — to explain to my friends why they weren’t invited to my house despite my frequent visits to theirs. One of these fictions involved a pack of killer guard dogs who hated strangers and couldn’t be called off. It must have worked because my friends stopped asking to come over and, years later, my boyfriend didn’t complain that he had to drop me off a half mile from home.
But the trouble with a secret as big as this one is that it produces a deep shame, and it doesn’t contain itself to just one area of your life — it is a shame that mutates and spreads and infects everything else. By keeping their relationship hushed to the outside world, I learned that it wasn’t OK to be gay — a belief that took decades to undo. I learned to suppress any burgeoning romantic feelings I might have felt for female friends, to play it cool and keep my guard up at all times.
When I eventually did share with friends that my mother was gay, long after I had left Arkansas and moved to more liberal climes, it was always as dinner party fodder. I’m ashamed to admit that I used phrases like “my mother and her lesbian,” instead of “my mother and her wife,” because making a crude joke abruptly ended the conversation and was easier than being open and answering questions.
As in all prejudices and bigotry, the underbelly of homophobia is fear. It is generational and only changes when there is conscious and deliberate education and awareness. It comes down to language and arming children with ideas and words they need to explain things to themselves and defend things to their peers.
If parents don’t help them find the language, they’re forced to find their own from the examples they see before them, or they appropriate someone else’s language. I had no one to talk to about it, so my language was internalized. And eventually, yes, I saw my mother’s identity as a barrier to my wider acceptance and I resented her for being a lesbian. I begged her to end the relationship and move back into our small rented apartment in town. To find a boyfriend.
“The trouble with a secret as big as this one is that it produces a deep shame, and it doesn’t contain itself to just one area of your life — it is a shame that mutates and spreads and infects everything else.”
Living with this secret at a young age was a blessing as well as a burden. It gave me greater awareness of other people’s differences, of insecurities that made them hang back from a group. It gave me a huge amount of empathy for others in almost every life situation I have been in since — something that has helped me to parent my two young children. But that empathy didn’t extend to my mother until years later. As I grew into a teenager I was rude, talked back, showed my mother little respect and Carol even less. I felt emboldened by their hidden life, as if I could lord their secret over them. I’m not proud of this.
I know now, and somewhat understood then, why my mother couldn’t be open about her life. Despite Eureka Springs being home to a quirky mix of artists, writers and creatives — many of them transplants from California and New York — these groups weren’t represented in the commerce or governance of the town.
The bank manager who gave my mom and Carol the loan they needed to buy land and build a house couldn’t know the truth about their relationship. A trip to the nearest cinema in Berryville meant that I had to sit between my mom and Carol, and there was never hand holding or kissing. At the school where she taught, Carol faced constant prying into her life from fellow teachers, parents and the administration. I see now that they also had to put on a mask, to pretend, to hope that no one asked deeper questions. As a couple, they weren’t allowed to just be.
I recently turned 40, and am now older than my mother was when she started her relationship with Carol and changed her life so drastically. It strikes me how brave she was to have made this decision. I’m amazed at the risks they both took at a young age and I wonder how many sacrifices they had to make because of it. How many times they were forced to accept something inferior, second rate. What was the interest rate on their bank loan and did the lumberyard give them a fair deal when it came to build their house? How did Carol, who didn’t have children of her own, feel when I refused to let her attend my school events, to sit in the bleachers while I cheered on the basketball team.
I would like to think that children raised by gay parents in 2018 do not face the same crippling isolation caused by secrecy. I wonder whether growing up in that small town with that huge secret would have been easier if, as today, there had been a range of support available both online and off. If I could have searched the hashtag #gaymom and found some friends on Instagram who understood, and laughed about our parents and shared stories the way kids do. “Normal” kids.
Over the past decade I have watched powerful movements of people who publicly stand up for their equal rights, for marriage equality, and the artists and writers who beautifully and routinely portray alternative families in their work. By doing so they give children a chance to see themselves in art and culture, and chip away at the otherness of being raised by gay parents.
It is clear to me now that the greatest impact I can have on my children is through the language I use to explain things to them. My children might assume their friends also have three grandmothers like they do, because the language my husband and I use to talk about my two mothers has been warm, familial —no different than how we speak about his straight parents.
This need for clarity and understanding and precise language stretches far beyond explaining sexual orientations to children. Teaching children these skills when they are young will shape their capacity for resilience and tolerance and their confidence and pride in where they come from. I wish I had felt empowered, through language, to be unashamed of my family and of myself.
In a few years my children’s questions will expand and become more specific, and I will have the chance to give them honest answers about same-sex relationships. They will instantly have many examples of people close to them to reference — other gay couples who are in our lives, and their two grandmothers in Arkansas. Their world is wide open, unashamed. The way it should be. Some secrets — small ones — are fine. But secrets that cause unnecessary shame have no place in childhood.
My mother’s relationship with Carol ended when she met Rebecca, who she married 23 years ago in a hot air balloon field — determined that her second relationship with a woman would be public, unafraid and proud. At age 17, I was embarrassed and surly during the ceremony, “accidentally” losing the rings in the grass.
It took having my own children in my 30s to understand the sacrifices my mother made and the daily bravery that was needed to live her life. I’m proud of her now. Over the years we have talked about how her life impacted me, and I have tried to tell her it wasn’t so bad, even though, at the time, it was. She has apologized but I don’t need to forgive her because there is nothing to forgive. By living her life, she has taught me the importance of living mine.
Name has been changed to protect privacy
Elizabeth Elford is a writer, public libraries advocate and mother. After growing up in rural Arkansas, and spending nearly a decade each in Moscow and London, Elizabeth now lives in Lugano, Switzerland, with her family. She received her MA in Creative Writing from City University London. She speaks fluent Russian and is now working on her Italian. Follow Elizabeth on Twitter @ElfordElizabeth .




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The Reluctant Wife
by Heather Lovins






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Charlotte was a woman in her prime. Her hair was still blonde; she even had her figure for thirty. She had a bachelor's degree in Advertising. Unfortunately, she gave up all that she had worked to gain for marriage, to Alex Cahill. He had been charming and outgoing for a rancher. He was six feet tall with broad shoulders, and the prettiest eyes in the state of Texas. She gave up her life, her family and friends in San Antonio to move to the outside of Houston. She did it for love. Now she was giving up her marriage to Alex for her life.
She had spent the last five years being there for him. She did everything for him; gave to him all she had. Why couldn't he do what he promised when they married? He promised to put her above all else.
"Charlotte, where are you going?" Alex came in to find her packing. He truly looked shocked.
"I am getting out. You are never home. I rarely see you any more," Charlotte said with tears in her eyes.
"It's been a busy season. You know that. I need you here with me."
"You never include me in your life, Alex. I am here at home waiting till all hours of the day, waiting to catch a small glimpse of my husband. That isn't right."
"Can't we just talk about this?" Alex didn't want to see her go.
"We have exhausted ourselves and got no where. I am tired of talking. I want a divorce."
"Back home, to San Antonio. I love you but I can't stay here another night, not like this." Charlotte Packed what she could in two suitcases, picked them up and walked out the door. Alex stood back and watched her get into her car and drive away into the night.
July was always the hottest time of the year in Texas. The sun was rising quite early and it was setting too late. Charlotte Monroe had lived in Texas for all of her thirty years. She was used to it. It was six o'clock in the evening as Charlotte walked out to her mail box with the sun still beating down on her. She took her stack of mail from her box when she came across a brown envelope addressed to her from her lawyer. She looked inside to find the unsigned divorce papers from her soon to be ex-husband, Alex Cahill. In the five years they had been married, she never asked anything from him, except maybe his love and attention. Alex had spent so much time in the fields, doing a two man job, that he forgot he had a wife at home. All she asked of him was a divorce and he couldn't even give her that.
"You rat bastard," she thought to herself. Three times she had the papers sent to Alex and three times he had returned them. She ran inside to her apartment, picked up her phone and dialed his number. No answer. Surely, he isn't still out in the fields.
"Looks like tomorrow, I am going to have to drive down to Houston." She said later when she called her best friend, Jill. Jill Baker had been Charlotte's friend for twenty years. They had almost a life time together. Jill was by her side when she had decided to leave Alex six months ago.
"Because that poor excuse husband of mine won't sign these damn papers." Charlotte was so angry. "I can't believe he keeps sending them back. I want to strangle him."
"Sounds to me like you still love him. Why again do you want a divorce?" Jill said with humor in her voice. She had thought those two belonged together. She was supportive of her friend, despite the fact that she didn't agree about the divorce.
"I wanted to come to the city to make something of myself. And I have. I am not one to be barefoot and pregnant while he is out roping his precious cows. I am very happy with my job." Charlotte said with vigor in her tone. "I am the head of my department at TY Ad Agency. I have my own life now. I gave him five years and what did I get in return? Nothing. I just couldn't stay at home and wait all day for him to return from the field. I felt trapped."
"Why didn't you try talking to him?"
"Oh I did. But he kept saying 'Next spring it'll be better, honey, and then I will have more time to spend with you.' It went on like that for 4 years and I had enough. I needed to get out."
"Well I wish you the best of luck tomorrow. Be safe."
A short time later Jill hung up and Charlotte went to go pack. She was not looking forward to this. Not only was it a long drive from San Antonio to Houston, but she was not looking forward to seeing Alex.
She left at 8 a.m. the following morning and got to the Diamond Stud Ranch around lunch time. Alex was just coming in from the corner pasture. The Diamond Stud was his baby. It was a spread of land just outside of Houston. Alex had done well for himself. It was a small spread but profitable.
He looked up and saw the dust from her car as she was pulling in the drive. "Shit," he said into the open air. He dusted his hat off and got ready to do battle with Charlotte. He knew why she had come. He expected it. What he didn't expect to see was the anger in her eyes when she got out of her Mercedes and approached him.
"Hello, Charlotte," Alex said with sunshine in his voice. "Nice to see you doing well. So, what do I owe this pleasure?"
"You know exactly why I am here." Charlotte reached into her shoulder bag to bring out the envelope. "I brought the papers out to you to watch you sign them. You'd have no excuse but to sign them."
"What makes you think I really want this divorce? I am not the one who left. I loved you six months ago when you walked that door and I love you now."
Charlotte ran her fingers through her hair trying to think of what to say. "I know you love me but it isn't enough. There are not enough hours in the day for you to do what you do and love me too. I understand that. I wanted something more. Can't you just be happy for me that I found what I was looking for?"
"How can I be happy for you when you are supposed to be here with me? We had something once. Why can't we try again?" He asked in desperation. He knew once he signed those papers, she would be out of his life forever and he didn't want that.
"It would be the same as before. You have no time for me." He had that irresistible look in those big blue eyes. He still had that power over her, to change her mind at his will. If she didn't turn and run now, she might not have the courage to do it later.
Alex could see Charlotte was getting anxious. She was ready to bolt like a cornered raccoon. He had to take his time and reel her in slowly. For starters, maybe he could convince her to stay a while. He missed her.
"Can't you even consider giving us another chance, Charlotte?"
"No, I can't. I have given you five years with nothing to gain. I can't do that again." With that reply, Charlotte turned on her heels and left.
Alex was at a loss of words. It was going to take a miracle to get her back. She was the best thing he ever had and he blew it. What was he going to do?
It was almost eight o'clock when Charlotte returned home. When she left the Diamond Stud, She was so shook up she just drove around for awhile. Deep down inside she still loved him. That was a fact. But love was just not enough. She needed more; deserved more. Even he had to admit that. Their marriage was in shambles when they were together. When she returned home, she was too exhausted to eat or even undress. She went straight to bed and cried. She cried over the fact that he wasn't going to give her what she wanted without a fight, and she cried because she didn't truly want to leave him. There was just no other way.
The next day, Charlotte went to work feeling refreshed and ready to start her day. It was going to be a very busy day. She had a full schedule and she was ready to get started. Right before her two o'clock meeting she came back to her office to find a dozen white carnations, her favorite, sitting there on her desk.
"Who could these be from?" She thought with peaking interest. She looked through the flowers, smelling each one looking for the card. She took the card from the envelope and read it out loud.
"I love you with all my heart. Now and forever Alex." Charlotte didn't know what to think. Alex had never given her flowers before. H
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