Back in the 1980s, I was living in Newport, Rhode Island, in Naval housing while my spouse was away on a long deployment. I didn’t have kids yet, and I spent most days working, keeping busy, and trying not to think too hard about how quiet the house felt.
Around that time, my brother came to stay with me for about a month while he attended a special program at the War College. It honestly didn’t feel like a big deal at all. He had his own schedule, went out with classmates sometimes, and we grabbed dinner out together a few nights. On weekends, since he was a distance runner, he’d spend a lot of time outside running.
I did everything the “right” way. I’d already written to my husband letting him know my brother would be staying with me, and when my husband called from a port, they even spoke on the phone. So in my mind, everything was completely normal and handled.
Until the rumors started.
My husband began getting messages that I “had a man in my house.” Not just casual gossip—other wives in the area were messaging him and even reaching out through the chain, including to the Captain, like they were reporting a scandal.
When people were told, “It’s her brother,” they didn’t drop it. Instead, they doubled down and insisted it couldn’t be true because—get this—my brother “looked NOTHING like me.”
It got so ridiculous that I finally brought family photos to the base chaplain to prove it. I showed years’ worth of pictures of us together—childhood photos, holidays, even shots from another brother’s wedding. And yes, I admitted the awkward truth: my brother and I didn’t look much alike… and honestly, I didn’t look much like my other brother either. Genetics can be funny that way.
But it didn’t matter how much proof I had—some people just wanted a story to tell.
That experience taught me one thing for life: gossips are going to gossip, no matter what the truth is.
