In 2019, Richard Gere and his wife Alejandra Silva became parents to a boy. A year later a second son was born. Although these are the couple’s first children together, they both bring experience from previous marriages into raising them.
Gere has a 22-year-old son named Homer James Jigme from his previous marriage to Carey Lowell. Richard Gere rose to fame through outstanding performances in films such as “Pretty Woman” and “An Officer and a Gentleman.”
Before his marriage to Silva, he was married to model and actress Cindy Crawford, with whom he was frequently seen on the red carpet and on magazine covers, before they separated after four years.
Seven years after this divorce, Gere married Carey Lowell and had his son Homer with her. During his relationship with Crawford, he had no desire to have children, unlike with Lowell. Homer was already known to the public at an early age due to his prominent parents.
When Gere’s marriage to Lowell ended in 2003, the family’s private life was heavily discussed in the media. Homer, who has a half-sister from his mother’s previous marriage, became big brother last year to another half-brother born to Alejandra Silva.
Homer himself leads a rather withdrawn life in New York and inherits not only his father’s charm, but also his attractive looks. Although he normally avoids publicity, he made a few public appearances with both parents as a child.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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