Page 12 of After the Rain

The work continued past dawn, my hands busy while my mind processed three weeks of interactions with Ezra.

The way my pulse quickened when I saw him in the school parking lot.

How I found myself taking extra time with my appearance on mornings when I knew I'd see him.

The way our coffee conversation had felt more like a date than a parent-teacher meeting.

The way I'd been thinking about him every day since.

By seven AM, I'd finished the window restoration and started on the wainscoting repair.

The Victorian's original woodwork was exquisite—quarter-sawn oak with a grain pattern that spoke of old-growth forests and craftsmen who took pride in their work.

Someone had damaged a section with careless furniture moving, leaving gouges that broke my heart.

But wood could be healed, with patience and skill. New pieces grafted seamlessly into old, invisible repairs that honored the original while making it whole again.

Maybe people could be healed the same way.

Maybe thirty-eight years of living according to other people's expectations hadn't damaged me beyond repair.

Maybe I could integrate this new understanding of myself with the man I'd always been, create something authentic without destroying everything I'd built.

I drove home as the sun painted the sky in soft pastels, my body tired but my mind finally quiet. The physical work had done what hours of lying in bed couldn't—given me space to think without the panic that usually accompanied thoughts of changing my entire identity.

Cooper was still asleep when I slipped back into the house and Jazz sleepily greeted me before heading back home. I showered off the sawdust and made coffee, settling at the kitchen table with the newspaper like any other Sunday morning.

Except nothing felt like any other morning. I felt fundamentally different, like someone had adjusted the color settings on my life and everything was suddenly more vivid.

"Morning, Daddy," Cooper appeared in his dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up in three directions. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd get some work done on the Victorian."

"Can I come next time? I like helping with the sanding."

"We'll see, buddy. Want pancakes?"

As I cooked breakfast, Cooper chattered about yesterday's activities with Ezra.

His teacher this, his teacher that, a steady stream of admiration that made my chest warm.

Cooper had clearly claimed Ezra as an important person in his world, with the wholehearted enthusiasm that only six-year-olds could manage.

"He makes really good salad," Cooper continued. "And he knows about building things almost as much as you do. Plus he laughs at my jokes."

"He does seem pretty great," I admitted, and the words carried more weight than Cooper would understand.

At the grocery store later, I found myself paying attention to other shoppers in ways I never had before.

A couple holding hands by the produce section caught my eye—two men in their forties, one tall and dark, the other shorter with graying temples.

They moved around each other with the easy intimacy of long partnership, debating pasta sauce brands with the kind of domestic comfort I'd always envied in other couples.

I watched them longer than I should have, trying to imagine myself in their place. What would it feel like to shop for groceries with Ezra, to have that kind of casual affection, to be part of a family unit that felt natural rather than performed?

The thought made my palms sweat, but not with panic. With possibility.

The taller man touched his partner's shoulder when making a point, casual and affectionate and real. I'd never touched Sarah like that. Never felt the urge to make casual contact, to express affection through small gestures.

But watching Ezra with Cooper yesterday, I'd noticed how often he touched—a hand on the shoulder, fingers ruffling hair, the kind of gentle contact that conveyed care and connection. I'd found myself wanting that touch, wanting to be someone Ezra reached for without thinking.

The revelation was both thrilling and terrifying.

Cooper made friends with another child at the park, a boy whose two fathers were supervising from a nearby bench. Before I could second-guess myself, I walked over.

"Beautiful day," I said, settling beside them.

"Perfect for wearing kids out," one of the fathers replied with a grin. "I'm David, and that's my husband Michael. Jackson's dad and dad."

The casual way he said "husband" made something in my chest loosen. This was just normal for them, unremarkable.

"Wade. Cooper's father. They seem to be hitting it off."

"Jackson's great at making friends. We're new to town—moved here six months ago when Michael got transferred. Everyone's been really welcoming."

"That's good to hear. Cooper's in kindergarten at Cedar Falls Elementary. Loves his teacher."

"Oh, Mr. Mitchell?" Michael joined the conversation. "We've heard wonderful things. Jackson's hoping to get him next year."

"Ezra's fantastic," David added. "We met him at the school's diversity night. Really thoughtful about making sure all kinds of families feel included."

My pulse quickened at the casual use of Ezra's first name, at the suggestion that he was active in supporting LGBTQ+ families.

"Cooper definitely feels included. Ezra has been great about helping him adjust to our family changes."

"Divorce?" Michael asked gently.

"Yeah. Recent. Still figuring out the co-parenting thing."

"That's tough. But kids are resilient. And having supportive teachers makes all the difference."

The conversation drifted to typical parent territory, but underneath I was processing the reality of same-sex couples parenting together, building families that looked different but functioned with the same love and commitment I wanted for Cooper.

This could be normal. This could be my life.

"Daddy, can you push me on the swings?" Cooper called.

As I pushed my son higher, listening to his delighted laughter, I tried to imagine different versions of our future. Would Cooper be okay with having a dad who was attracted to men? Could he handle explaining to friends that his father had a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend?

"The two daddies seemed really nice," Cooper said during the drive home.

"They did. Jackson's lucky to have parents who care about him so much."

"Do you think it's weird to have two daddies instead of a mommy and daddy?"

My heart hammered as I considered my response.

"No, buddy. I think what matters is that families love each other and take care of each other. That can look lots of different ways."

"Good. Because Jackson's really happy and his dads are super cool. They're building him a treehouse too."

Cooper's easy acceptance felt like a gift. Maybe his generation approached love with fewer assumptions than mine had. Maybe the world was more ready for different kinds of families than I'd realized.

Maybe I was the one who needed to catch up.

I found myself at my computer, typing searches I'd never imagined making.

Coming out in your thirties after divorce How to know if you're gay later in life Men who realized they were gay after marriage.

The results were overwhelming. Dozens of forums, support groups, personal stories from men who'd lived similar experiences. I read with the hunger of someone finally finding words for feelings I couldn't previously name.

One blog post hit particularly close to home:

"I spent years trying to be the husband I thought I should be.

Lisa was beautiful, kind, everything I'd been taught to want.

But making love to her felt like following a script, performing a role rather than expressing genuine desire.

I convinced myself this was normal, that real passion was something from movies, not real life.

When I met Damon, everything changed. Suddenly I understood what people meant when they talked about being attracted to someone. The way my pulse quickened when he smiled, how I found excuses to be near him, the electricity I felt when we touched—it was everything I'd thought was fiction.

Coming out at thirty-five was terrifying. But living authentically, even when it's scary, is better than living a lie, even when it's comfortable."

The words could have been written about my marriage to Sarah, about my growing feelings for Ezra. This sense of waking up to possibilities I'd never allowed myself to consider.

After Cooper's bedtime, I sat in my living room with a beer, staring at my phone. Ezra's number was right there in my contacts, saved when we'd exchanged information about Cooper's homework help.

I wanted to hear his voice. Wanted to maintain the connection we'd built yesterday. Wanted to test whether the chemistry I'd felt was reciprocated.

My finger hovered over his number for a full minute before I finally pressed call.

"Hi Wade." His warm greeting suggested he was pleased to hear from me.

"I wanted to thank you again for yesterday. Cooper's been talking about his family tree all day."

"It was my pleasure. Really. Cooper's got such a creative spirit."

Our conversation started with gratitude but quickly moved to more personal territory. Weekend activities, Cooper's excitement about the completed project, shared observations about small-town life.

The ease of our phone interaction mirrored yesterday's natural chemistry. We talked like old friends, like people who'd known each other for years rather than weeks.

"There's a community event at the library next Saturday," Ezra mentioned. "They're doing a building workshop for kids. Sounds like something Cooper would enjoy."

"That does sound perfect for him," I said, then heard myself adding, "Would you like to go together? I mean, if you're planning to attend anyway."

The invitation came out before I could second-guess it, and Ezra's immediate acceptance felt like a small victory.

"I'd love that. Cooper and I could work on a project while you supervise our questionable construction skills."

The easy banter felt natural, comfortable in a way that made my chest warm. We were making plans outside the school context, moving toward something that felt like friendship but carried the possibility of more.

As our conversation wound toward its end, neither of us seemed eager to hang up. We found excuses to keep talking, the reluctance to break our connection feeling significant.

"I should probably let you go," Ezra said finally, though his tone suggested he didn't want to.

"Yeah, early morning tomorrow."

"Thanks for calling, Wade. I'm really looking forward to Saturday."

"Me too."

Hanging up after nearly an hour of conversation, I felt energized and hopeful in ways I'd almost forgotten were possible. Ezra had seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me, interested in spending more time together, warm in ways that felt personal rather than merely professional.

I went to bed with anticipation for our library plans and growing certainty that whatever I was feeling, it was worth exploring.

For the first time in years, I was excited about the possibilities ahead rather than just getting through another day.

Maybe this was what it felt like to actually want something—not just accepting what seemed practical or expected, but genuinely desiring a specific future, a particular person, a life that felt authentic rather than performative.

I fell asleep thinking about Ezra's laugh and the way he'd looked at me when I'd talked about the Victorian house restoration. Like what I had to say mattered. Like I mattered.

Maybe it was time to find out what else I'd been missing.