Page 38 of After the Rain

EIGHTEEN

ALL IS LOST

EZRA

I was making Cooper's favorite breakfast—cinnamon toast cut into dinosaur shapes—when the knock came.

Sharp, official, the kind that makes your stomach drop before you even answer the door.

Wade was upstairs getting dressed, and Cooper was at the kitchen table arranging his action figures in elaborate battle formations, completely absorbed in his imaginary world.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

"I'll get it," I called upstairs, wiping my hands on a dish towel. Through the front window, I could see a man in uniform standing on the porch, official papers in his hand. Sheriff's deputy. My blood turned to ice.

"Wade," I called, my voice tight with dread. "You need to come down here. Now."

Cooper looked up from his toys, sensing the tension in my voice. "Who is it, Mr. Mitchell?"

"Just someone for your dad, buddy. Keep playing."

Wade appeared at the top of the stairs, still buttoning his shirt. One look at my face and he was moving fast, taking the steps two at a time. I opened the door before he reached it.

"Wade Harrison?" the deputy asked, consulting his paperwork.

"That's me."

"I'm Deputy Roland with the Cedar Falls Sheriff's Department. I have legal documents that need to be served to you personally." He extended an official envelope, thick with papers. "Emergency custody modification petition filed by Richard and Margaret Fletcher."

The words hit like a sledgehammer to the chest. Wade's face went white as he accepted the papers, his hands trembling slightly as he opened the envelope.

"What's happening, Daddy?" Cooper's small voice cut through the adult tension. He'd abandoned his toys and was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking between us with the intuitive fear that children possess when their world starts shifting.

"It's okay, buddy," Wade said, but his voice cracked on the words. "Just some grown-up paperwork."

Deputy Roland completed his duty with professional detachment, explaining Wade's rights and the court date that had been set. Two days from now. As he walked back to his patrol car, I watched our neighbors' curtains twitch. Word would spread through Cedar Falls before noon.

Wade stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the papers like they might disappear if he focused hard enough. I guided him to the kitchen table, my own hands shaking as I poured coffee neither of us would drink.

The custody petition was a masterpiece of legal character assassination.

Page after page of carefully documented "evidence" that painted our relationship as predatory and harmful.

Photographs of us holding hands at Cooper's birthday party.

Statements from neighbors about my car in the driveway overnight.

A timeline of my "increasing presence" in Cooper's life that made normal dating progression sound like calculated grooming.

"Listen to this shit," Wade said, his voice raw with disbelief.

"'The minor child is being exposed to inappropriate homosexual lifestyle choices and unstable adult relationships that compromise his moral development and psychological wellbeing.

'" He looked up at me, eyes bright with unshed tears.

"They're talking about us like we're criminals. "

But it got worse. So much worse.

The most damaging allegations centered on me specifically.

The petition painted me as a predatory figure who had manipulated both father and son for sexual access.

It suggested that my job as Cooper's teacher gave me inappropriate influence over the family, that I'd used my position to "groom" both Wade and Cooper for my own gratification.

Reading those words, seeing our love described as manipulation and abuse, made bile rise in my throat. I had to put the papers down and focus on breathing, fighting the urge to vomit right there at Wade's kitchen table.

"This is insane," I whispered. "They're making it sound like I'm some kind of predator."

"They're making it sound like loving you makes me an unfit father." Wade's voice was hollow, defeated. "Cooper, come here, buddy."

Cooper approached cautiously, picking up on the adult fear that was filling the room like smoke. "Are you in trouble, Daddy?"

"No, buddy. But you're going to go stay with Mommy for a little while, okay? Like an extended sleepover."

"Why? I don't want to go to Mommy's. I want to stay here with you and Mr. Mitchell."

The innocence in Cooper's voice broke something inside me. This seven-year-old boy, whose only crime was loving both his father and his teacher, was being used as a weapon in someone else's war against who we were.

"I know you do, buddy. But sometimes grown-ups have to make decisions that don't make sense to kids. Can you go pack a bag? Just for a few days."

Cooper's face crumpled. "Did I do something wrong? Is it because I love Mr. Mitchell?"

The question hit like a knife to the heart. Wade's sharp intake of breath told me he felt it too. This was what we'd brought into Cooper's life—confusion, fear, the belief that love could be wrong.

"No," Wade said fiercely, dropping to his knees to pull Cooper into a hug. "You did nothing wrong, and loving people is never wrong. The grown-ups are having a disagreement, that's all. It has nothing to do with you."

But we both knew that was a lie. This had everything to do with Cooper, with his welfare, with his future. The Fletchers were using their grandson as ammunition against the life Wade had built with me.

An hour later, Sarah arrived to pick up Cooper, her face streaked with tears and her movements sharp with barely controlled rage.

"They ambushed me too," she said quietly while Cooper gathered his favorite stuffed animals. "Told me I had no choice, that they'd filed papers and Cooper had to come stay with me immediately. Wade, I'm so sorry. I tried to talk them out of this."

"I know," Wade said, but his voice was empty. "This isn't your fault."

"Isn't it? They're my parents. I should have stopped this before it got this far."

Cooper clung to Wade at the door, and watching them say goodbye felt like witnessing something sacred being torn apart. The little boy didn't understand why his world was suddenly unstable, why the adults he trusted were crying, why love had become a problem to be solved.

"I'll see you soon, buddy," Wade whispered into Cooper's hair. "I promise."

"Can Mr. Mitchell come visit me at Mommy's?"

Wade and I exchanged a look over Cooper's head. The custody papers were clear—my presence in Cooper's life was now legally problematic.

"We'll see," Wade said, which was the kindest lie he could manage.

After they left, the house felt like a tomb. Wade sat at the kitchen table staring at the legal papers, and I could see him aging in real time. The man who'd been glowing with happiness just hours ago now looked hollow, beaten.

"We need a lawyer," I said, though the words felt inadequate against the magnitude of what we were facing.

"With what money? You see what we're up against." Wade gestured at the thick stack of evidence the Fletchers had compiled. "This is months of professional preparation. Private investigators, expert witnesses, legal teams. They've been planning this since Cooper's birthday party."

The attorney Wade hastily retained that afternoon confirmed our worst fears. Michael Lee was a family law specialist with twenty years of experience, and his assessment was brutally honest.

"This is a well-funded, professionally prepared attack designed to use your sexuality and relationship against you," he said, reviewing the custody petition with a grim expression. "The Fletchers have built a compelling case for conservative judges who may share their prejudices."

We sat in his sterile office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, while he explained the immediate challenges we faced.

Emergency hearings favored the status quo, which now meant Cooper living with Sarah.

Judges in their county tended toward traditional family values.

Wade's late-in-life coming out would be portrayed as a midlife crisis rather than authentic self-discovery.

"Every aspect of your journey will be weaponized against you," Lee continued.

"They'll argue that your relationship proves you prioritize sexual gratification over Cooper's stability.

Every night you've spent together, every public display of affection will be used as evidence of poor parental judgment. "

I felt Wade flinch beside me. Our beautiful, tender moments—lazy morning breakfasts, goodnight kisses on the porch, hands held during Cooper's soccer games—all of it was evidence now. Evidence of my corruption of their family.

"What about my presence in all this?" I asked, though I dreaded the answer.

Lee’s expression softened with sympathy.

"Mr. Mitchell, I have to be honest. Your relationship with Wade complicates the defense strategy significantly.

The opposing counsel will argue that this relationship is evidence of Wade's poor judgment, that he's putting his own desires ahead of his son's wellbeing. "

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that your best chance might be for Wade to agree to end your relationship in exchange for maintaining custody. It's not fair, but judges sometimes view that as evidence of putting Cooper's needs first."

The suggestion hit me like a physical blow. Choose between love and family. Choose between my happiness and Cooper's stability. Choose between the life we'd built and the life Wade needed to preserve.

Wade's response was immediate and fierce. "No. I won't sacrifice Ezra to appease bigots. There has to be another way."

But Lee’s expression told us there might not be.