Page 41 of After the Rain

The meeting ended with concrete action plans spreading across multiple fronts.

Legal strategy coordinated with Dr. Marlow.

Community organizing managed by Brook and Jazz.

Media outreach handled by some of the teachers who had experience with public relations.

Fundraising for my mounting legal costs organized by the business owners who understood the real cost of justice.

But more importantly, I left feeling part of something larger than my personal struggle. This had become a community fight for the soul of Cedar Falls, and I was no longer fighting alone.

The drive to Riverside Park felt like traveling backward through time.

Every landmark reminded me of happier moments—the ice cream shop where Cooper had convinced Ezra to try seventeen different flavors, the crosswalk where I'd first held Ezra's hand in public, the bridge where we'd stood watching Cooper chase ducks while planning a future that had seemed so possible just days ago.

I found Ezra sitting alone on our bench by the river, staring at the water like it might hold answers to questions he couldn't articulate. He looked broken in ways I'd never seen—not just sad, but defeated, like someone who'd lost faith in the possibility of happiness.

The sight broke my heart all over again.

"Hey," I said softly, settling beside him on the bench where we'd shared our first real conversation about being more than friends.

"Hey." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me."

"Why wouldn't I want to see you?"

"Because this is all my fault." Ezra turned to face me, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and unshed tears. "If I hadn't pushed for more, if I'd kept my distance like I should have, Cooper would still be with you. You'd still have your son."

"Ezra, stop."

"I can't stop. I keep thinking about what Cooper asked that morning—if he did something wrong because he loved me. I've made that little boy think love is dangerous, that caring about people gets them hurt. What kind of person does that make me?"

The circular guilt was eating him alive, and I recognized the pattern because I'd been trapped in it myself. Blaming ourselves for other people's prejudice, taking responsibility for hatred that belonged to the Fletchers and their allies.

"It makes you human," I said, reaching for his hand. "It makes you someone who loves deeply and hurts when that love is used as a weapon. But Ezra, you didn't do this to Cooper. They did."

"I should have stayed away. Should have known that getting involved with you would only cause problems."

"And I should have protected you both better. Should have seen this coming and prepared for it." I squeezed his fingers, feeling how cold they were despite the warm evening. "We can blame ourselves all night, or we can focus on fixing what's broken."

Ezra was quiet for a long moment, watching the river flow past us toward whatever future waited downstream. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who'd given up on hope.

"What if we can't fix it? What if this is just how it ends—Cooper confused and hurt, you losing custody, me destroying everything I touch?"

"Then we'll have tried everything we could. But Ezra, I'm not giving up on us. I'm not choosing between you and Cooper because you're both my family. We're going to fight this together, and we're going to win."

I told him about the meeting at Brook's house, about the growing coalition of support, about Uncle John's religious liberty strategy and Dr. Vasquez's research. With each detail, I watched something shift in Ezra's expression—not quite hope yet, but the possibility of hope.

"You really think we have a chance?"

"I think we have something they don't expect—a community that believes in us. The Fletchers are counting on us being isolated, on people being too scared or apathetic to get involved. But they miscalculated."

Ezra leaned against my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around him, pulling him close. We sat like that as darkness fell over the river, holding each other and planning our counterattack.

"Whatever happens in court, we face it together," Ezra whispered against my neck. "No more sacrificing our relationship for other people's comfort. No more hiding who we are."

"Together," I agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Our reunion kiss by the river carried the weight of shared loss and renewed commitment.

We'd both learned that love without courage was incomplete, that authenticity required fighting for the right to exist openly.

This wasn't just about getting Cooper back—it was about creating a community where children like Cooper could grow up seeing diverse expressions of love and family.

The phone call from Sarah came the next evening while Ezra and I were making dinner together, trying to rebuild the domestic routines that had made us feel like a family. Sarah's voice was tight with urgency and barely controlled anger.

"Wade, we need to talk. About Cooper, about what my parents are doing to him."

I put the call on speaker so Ezra could hear, both of us suddenly focused on Sarah's words instead of the pasta we'd been preparing.

"What's happening?"

"He's been asking increasingly difficult questions about why he can't see his father and Mr. Mitchell, why Grandpa and Grandma Fletcher seem angry all the time, why the grown- ups are fighting about love. Wade, he's not stupid. He knows something is very wrong, and he's starting to blame himself."

The pain in her voice was real, and I could hear Cooper's confusion echoing through her words.

"Can I talk to him?"

"That's why I'm calling. He's been begging to talk to you, and I think you need to hear what he's been saying."

The phone rustled as Sarah handed it over, and then Cooper's small voice filled our kitchen, sounding older and sadder than any kid should be.

"Daddy? When can I come home? I miss you and Mr. Mitchell."

The longing in his voice shattered something inside my chest. "I miss you too, buddy. So much."

"Grandma Fletcher says bad things about Mr. Mitchell, but I know he's good. He helped me with my volcano project and taught me about dinosaurs and always reads the voices funny during story time. Why won't they let me see you?"

How do you explain adult prejudice to a child? How do you tell your son that some grown-ups think love is wrong without destroying his faith in the goodness of people?

"Sometimes grown-ups disagree about things, buddy. But you didn't do anything wrong, and neither did Mr. Mitchell. We're working very hard to fix this so you can come home soon."

"I told Grandpa Fletcher that you and Mr. Mitchell make each other happy, and happy people make better families. But he got mad and said I don't understand grown-up things."

Out of the mouths of babes. Cooper's simple wisdom cut through all the legal complexity to the heart of the matter—love made families stronger, not weaker.

"You understand more than most grown-ups, Cooper. You're the smartest kid I know."

Sarah took the phone back, her voice thick with tears.

"Wade, I've been documenting what they're doing—their attempts to turn him against you and Ezra, their inappropriate discussions of adult relationships in front of a child, their use of Cooper as an information source.

They're traumatizing him to win a point. This has to stop."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm bringing him to court tomorrow. It's time the judge heard from the person this is supposedly all about. Cooper deserves to have his voice in his own custody determination."

The community rally at Cedar Falls Community Center exceeded everyone's expectations.

Over two hundred people gathered in the gymnasium, filling folding chairs and standing along the walls, united in support of inclusive families and opposition to discrimination.

Local media coverage brought statewide attention to our case.

I stood at the podium looking out at faces I recognized and many I didn't—parents, teachers, business owners, religious leaders who believed in love over hatred.

The crowd included people I'd known for years and others who'd driven from neighboring towns because our story had touched something in their own lives.

“Not that long ago, I was living a lie," I began, my voice carrying across the packed gymnasium.

"I was married to a wonderful woman, raising an incredible son, and slowly dying inside because I couldn't be honest about who I was.

Coming out felt like the scariest thing I'd ever done, but it turns out the scary part wasn't being gay.

The scary part was other people's reaction to my honesty. "

I told them about falling in love with Ezra, about building a family based on authenticity instead of obligation, about Cooper's happiness and growth in our household. I talked about the Fletchers' attack and the legal system that had been weaponized against our love.

"This fight isn't just about my family," I continued, my voice growing stronger with each word.

"It's about what kind of community we want to be—one that celebrates love in all its forms, or one that punishes people for being honest about who they are.

Cooper is watching how we respond to hatred, and his future depends on our courage today. "

The testimonials that followed revealed the broader impact our relationship had on the community.

Parents spoke about their children learning acceptance from watching Ezra teach with patience and kindness.

Business owners talked about the positive changes in Cedar Falls as more people felt safe being authentic.

Religious leaders like Uncle John explained how inclusion strengthened rather than weakened their faith communities.

When Ezra joined me on stage, taking my hand in front of two hundred people and multiple news cameras, the symbolism was impossible to miss. We represented the possibility of authentic love surviving institutional opposition, the power of community support to overcome individual prejudice.

The crowd's standing ovation suggested Cedar Falls was ready for change, ready to become the kind of place where children like Cooper could grow up seeing diverse expressions of love and family.

The evening ended with concrete commitments that exceeded our wildest expectations.

Fundraising goals not just met but surpassed.

Volunteer schedules organized for everything from childcare during court hearings to letter-writing campaigns to media outreach.

Testimony lined up from dozens of people willing to speak about our character and Cooper's wellbeing.

But more importantly, Ezra and I left feeling supported by a community that valued our relationship and Cooper's wellbeing over the Fletcher family's prejudice.

We weren't just fighting for our own family anymore—we were fighting for the soul of Cedar Falls, for the right of all families to exist openly and authentically.

Walking to our cars after the rally, I felt something I hadn't experienced since the morning the custody papers were served: hope.

Real, tangible hope that love might be stronger than hatred, that truth might triumph over prejudice, that families built on authenticity might survive attacks from those who preferred comfortable lies.

Tomorrow would bring another court hearing, another chance to fight for Cooper's future and our family's right to exist. But tonight, surrounded by allies I'd never known I had, I believed we might actually win.

More than that, I believed we deserved to win.