Two Mothers, One Lie

The story of one emigration, or why we spent six months hiding our own son from the neighbors

Photo by the author

Nice

I was sitting on a public beach in Nice.

Azure waves crashed against the shore. A gentle breeze brushed my face.

I looked around. There were people all around me. Happy people. They were dressed in bright colors, their postures were relaxed, and they were laughing. And they seemed free.

I admired them.

And I, too, felt free.

Far freer than I did back home.

Suddenly, I noticed a couple of guys holding hands. They seemed to be in love and happy.

But no one around them reacted with disgust. No one pointed fingers at them. They were simply strolling along the waterfront that morning, without being met with a single hateful glance.

I watched them and remembered what it was like to live with the same truth about myself, but on the other side of the border.

Back home, passersby would often give me hostile stares; I was showered with curses; a complete stranger would pin me against a wall and whisper in my ear: