It had only been a few weeks since I started advertising before I had to fly back home for a family emergency. I dreaded the inevitable small talk about work and life. I hated keeping secrets, but this new job was something I couldn’t explain to my family.
A week after I returned, my grandfather passed away. We all gathered to prepare for his funeral. Funerals for me are always strange moments, filled with the awkwardness of reconnecting with family members you haven’t seen in decades. One morning, as I sipped coffee in the kitchen while everyone else was still asleep, my grandma sat down next to me.
"I have a secret for you," she said, referencing last night’s dinner when I’d playfully asked everyone to share their secrets—my all-time favorite question. The most thrilling revelation had been about how the flower pot got broken. My grandma and I weren’t particularly close. She didn’t talk much, and I often struggled to feel connected to her. So, I was surprised when she seemed eager to join in on the secrets game.
"When I was your age, I was on the streets." At first, I didn’t think much of it. I knew my family came from a poor background, and it didn’t seem shocking that she might have found herself on the streets at some point. I recalled the story of how her mother had kicked her out at Christmas.
"Was it when your ma kicked you out at Christmas?" I asked, trying to piece it together.
"No," she replied. "I was on the streets from 18 until I met your grandpa. I wasn’t living there, I was working."
A strange feeling crept over me. Ever since I started escorting, I’d been noticing references to sex work everywhere, always on the lookout for signs. But I quickly dismissed the thought, telling myself it was just my imagination running wild. Then she dropped the bombshell: "I was a hooker." Oh, shit. Maybe my imagination wasn’t playing tricks after all. I thought I had misheard, but she laughed and said it again. "Now that’s a secret for you. Nobody else knows. It was just your grandpa, but now that he’s gone, I need someone else to guard my secret."
At that moment, of course, my mum walked in. My grandma winked at me, signaling the end of our conversation. The day dragged on, and questions began to build in my mind: What had led her into it? Did she enjoy it? And what would she think if she knew about me? Was it some sort of social or other destiny that brought me to sex work?
I hated keeping secrets, but this new job was something I couldn’t explain to my family.
Eventually, I found another chance to talk to her alone. I learned that she had been a street based sex worker for a few years, how she had loved it at times and hated it at others. She shared how she had hidden this part of her life from her family and how she had formed close bonds with the other girls on the streets. For a while, she had harbored deep resentment toward men, but that gradually changed.
She recounted becoming pregnant and being sent to a Mother and Baby Home, where she had to give up her child for adoption. It pained me to hear how her parents had discarded her, which led her to run away to another town in an attempt to start fresh. It was there that she met my grandpa. He accepted her past, but she felt he never truly respected her, as if she would always remain a whore in his eyes.
Hearing her story broke my heart, even though she seemed happy and content with her life now. I shared with her the feminist essays I had read, the testimonies from others in the movement for sex workers’ rights, and how empowering it can be to reclaim one's narrative.
She looked at me, saying, "You know a bit too much about this subject." I turned red. I could easily play the young artist, left-wing, feminist card, but I also wanted someone to know my secret. So I explained how, in the last few months, I had decided to become an escort.
She didn’t even blink. I think she kind of froze, but after a second or two, she smiled, and my heart melted. "I don’t think your ma would approve," she said.
"No, she wouldn’t, and I really hope she never finds out."
"Your secret is safe with me. I’m here for you. I don’t want you to go through the same things I did. You seem to have your head on your shoulders, and whatever reason you have for doing this, I trust you."
She didn’t ask for any more details; I could tell it was a lot for her to take in. But she hugged me, and that was all I could have asked for, someone to trust in my ability to make the right decisions for myself. I never imagined I would find my biggest ally so close to home.
My grandma actually passed away before I discovered her past, so I never had the chance to share my secrets with her. But if she were still alive, I truly hope she would have been my biggest ally.
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