My story I helped my husband
come out
Teresa Leggett realised her husband was gay before he did, and that knowledge changed both their lives. Now this 45-year-old mother of two is a Mardi Gras organiser, and was just recently “best woman” at her ex’s wedding. This is her story, as told to Gary Nunn.
I was in a Brisbane pub with my first love and husband of nine years, Michael. I’d been working interstate for three months and he was taking me out to meet some of his new friends. But as the night progressed and drinks were consumed, something uncomfortable happened. One of Michael’s new male friends became angry and emotional. I looked at him, then looked at Michael. It was the behaviour of someone who felt emotionally betrayed. Suddenly I had this sinking feeling. I dashed to the bathroom and rang a friend in tears. “I think Michael’s gay,” I said. She told me I needed to ask Michael. When I broached it with him at home later that night, he earnestly denied it. It was a conversation we would have again and again. In Michael’s eyes, if he was gay, he would lose everything: his wife, family, marriage, the love of his parents, his friends, his position in the police force. Michael was very similar to his dad, who had served in the army. Michael’s mum once showed me his “When I grow up …” childhood book. In it, he’d written: “I want to be a soldier and a police officer.” And that’s exactly what he’d become. Duty, responsibility and purpose were all important to him – in his career and in our marriage.
True love I’d met Michael 12 years earlier on an army reserves course. I was 19 and he was 24. I was a dreadful soldier – I’ve never been good at following orders. In our first real conversation,
98 The Australian Women’s Weekly | FEBRUARY 2020
Michael pulled me aside and gave me a lecture. He said I was a pathetic excuse for a soldier, that I was drinking too much, that I was an embarrassment to the uniform. And then we began dating. I still smile when I remember the day he proposed. Everything went wrong. It was Valentine’s Day. He’d planned dinner at my favourite restaurant on top of Mount Coot-tha in Brisbane, but the restaurant wasn’t taking bookings, and it poured so hard we were absolutely drenched and had to book an extortionate hotel. Flustered, down on one knee, he produced a ring his grandparents had made. I nodded, crying like a baby. He cried too. Looking back, I was convinced I knew it all. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind about Michael. I’d met the love of my life. The big fairytale wedding was on the hottest day on record in a huge cathedral in Ipswich. The priest was my uncle and my lace dress was made by my grandmother. Ave Maria was played, then a police bagpiper performed to our 150 guests. A decade of married life followed, eight years of which were very happy. There were times we realised we weren’t passionately in love with each other, but I consoled myself that relationships naturally grow less passionate over time. Michael had this checklist of a successful life: soldier, police officer, married. By now he was in the police force. When you’re with someone who is that confident, you go along with it. It feels right. When a rumour went around that someone
