My father, born in 1918, was gay. During my 20s, he began sharing stories about his early life, revealing that he was openly gay in the 1930s—a bold and uncommon stance for that era. He had dreams that many would have deemed impossible. The challenge was that he was still married to my mother while he confided in me.

In 1939, at a party in the Hollywood Hills attended by gay filmmakers and musicians, my father was arrested. The police handcuffed the men, herded them into a van, and took them to jail. The next morning, he appeared before a judge for sentencing. Fortunately, he was released because the arresting officer couldn't testify that he saw my father touching his dance partner.

Later, he was caught in an illegal sting operation in Pasadena that targeted gay men, where police extorted them for cash payments in exchange for conditional release. These incidents shattered his dreams of becoming a schoolteacher and living with his boyfriend.

As World War II approached, he attempted to enlist in the U.S. Navy but was rejected due to his record indicating he was gay. The Army eventually accepted him, likely because the imminent war created a need for able-bodied men, regardless of their sexual orientation.

Before he shipped out, he attended a USO dance on the San Francisco Peninsula. Arriving with a fellow soldier, his buddy shouted over the music, "Hey, Hall, let’s get outta here. There aren’t any girls to dance with." My mother, still in high school and dancing with the company cook, noticed my father—a handsome soldier with big blue eyes and white teeth—and said, "I’ll dance with you." This origin story was recounted by my parents throughout their lives.

In September 1942, my father sent a telegram to my mother during a furlough: "Arrive in Frisco tomorrow. Marry me dearest." Despite my grandmother's horror, she accepted. She was only 18.

After the war, they had four children; I was the second born. By the time I was 6, I noticed how friendly my father was with my mother's friends. Their dinner parties in the 1950s and ’60s were glamorous, with women vying to dance with my father, praising his smooth moves and good manners. Sometimes, I saw women who weren’t my mother sitting on his lap, which infuriated me.

In my early 20s, while struggling with my own relationships, I confronted my father during a hike, suspecting he had affairs. When we reached the hilltop, I asked if he had been unfaithful to Mom. His face flushed, and after a pause, he revealed, "Honey, I'm gay. I’ve always been gay."

I was shocked but also realized he wasn't a typical dad. He chose our clothes, cut and styled our hair, and once gave me what he called a "Mia Farrow" haircut, which I disliked. He styled my mother's hair better and taught me to crochet, needlepoint, and make paper chains from cigarette packs. He created beautiful table centerpieces and fancy desserts, like a frozen dessert with floating grape slices that impressed us kids. He took us to operas, musicals, plays, and museums in San Francisco. He was a cool dad, with no guns, roughhousing, hunting, or violent football games.

Once he came out to me, his stories flowed. When I asked if my mother knew, he said she discovered his secret in the 1950s after finding revealing photos of him with other men. I was 6 at the time. She called him at work, hysterical, and he rushed home, fearing one of us kids had been hurt. When he learned what happened, he offered to leave, promising to support her and us forever. He packed his things that night, but as he backed out of the driveway, my mother ran to him, pleading for him to stay, saying she still loved him.

So, he stayed. He stayed forever.

For years after he shared these stories with me, I felt sorry for my parents. I doubted they had the marriage they wanted, though neither ever expressed any unhappiness to me. Decades later, I asked my mother if she wished they had split up when she found out he was gay.

“Oh, nooo, Laurie,” she said, drawing out the word. “I love your father.”

Years went by. As far as I knew, they didn’t have an open marriage. However, my mother supported my father when he established the first LGBT section in the local library and volunteered as an AIDS buddy for the Shanti Project in the 1990s.

The night before my mother died in 2006, she lay unconscious while my father hosted relatives in the kitchen. I sat by her bedside, fearing he might let her final moments pass without saying goodbye. I wondered if I had misjudged their relationship as a loving one.

I wasn’t wrong.

At one point, I left her room and saw my father, at 88, making his way down the dark hallway toward her. I wondered if he had waited for me to leave. Standing by the bedroom door, I hoped to hear that she had been happy with her life choice.

“Rus-ty,” he said in a sing-song voice, using her old nickname, “I’m so glad you said yes.”

Mom, who had been unconscious for the past 24 hours, responded, “I’d do it all over again.”

Dad, stunned, asked her to repeat it. He seemed as surprised as I was. In the end, that was all I needed to hear. I left them to say their final goodbyes. My mother passed away the next morning, five months shy of their 65th anniversary.

My father lived another two years, often speaking of my mother. Once, he told me he heard her calling his name from another room. He believed she’d be pleased with how he decorated his new place. She had always been his biggest fan. Their love was unconventional, but it was love nonetheless, chosen under difficult circumstances.

After my father’s death, I began writing about my family and speaking publicly. I gave my first talk in San Francisco’s Castro District, a historic gay neighborhood. To my surprise, I faced pushback from two men in attendance. One called my father a traitor to the gay movement. Another accused him of being cruel to my mother for hiding his sexual orientation.

I was speechless and felt ashamed. It hurt. I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t. I began to question if I had misjudged my father, who had always been so wonderful and caring. I grappled with these feelings for years.

Then, a few months ago, I watched “Maestro,” Bradley Cooper’s biopic of Leonard Bernstein. The film depicts Bernstein’s marriage to Felicia Montealegre while he pursued relationships with men. At one point, Bernstein laments that the world wanted their marriage to be one thing, when it wasn’t just one thing.

Though different from my parents’ relationship, this hit me like a lightning bolt. I realized I hadn’t defended my father as he had always done for me. Watching “Maestro” helped me articulate my long-held regret: that judgment from others led me to question my father’s integrity.

I am happy my parents found each other and confident in the love they had. What I heard the night before my mother died reassured me.

The environment my father grew up in wasn’t good for anyone. He didn’t get to live the life he should have. Despite what he faced, he loved fiercely, and that love allowed me to be who I am. I’m grateful for that, but my heart still breaks for him.

It wasn’t fair to my mother either. I can’t fully understand what she felt, but I know it must have been incredibly difficult. Yet, she also experienced great happiness, much of it because of my father. She never criticized him in my presence.

Ultimately, my parents’ story is complicated. Understanding it requires context, nuance, and consideration of the time. But for me, the point is that love comes in many forms. My parents’ lives, though imperfect and unfair, were filled with love, and thanks to them, so was mine.

As my father lay dying in 2008 at age 90, he uncharacteristically barked out an order to me. He pointed to the large plastic clock on the wall.

“Turn the clock back, Laurie,” he said, adamantly. “Turn it back!”

Those were his final words to me. I was bewildered but told him I would, even though I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe he wanted more time with my mom and his children, another chance to live as an openly gay man, or something else entirely.

I can’t turn back the clock—for him, my mother, or myself. But going forward, I promise to stand up for my father without shame or regret. Many men and women faced situations like my parents. Their stories deserve to be told and heard. They may not fit neatly into a box, but what love story does?

Laura Hall was born on the San Francisco Peninsula to a closeted gay dad and a straight mom during the post-WWII baby boom. She came of age during the rebellious ’60s just as the Summer of Love kicked off in San Francisco. Her award-winning memoir, “Affliction: Growing Up With a Closeted Gay Dad,” was published in 2021.