Page 43 of After the Rain
This wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even about us. It was about a seven-year-old boy being asked to help decide the shape of his future.
Judge Morrison’s chambers felt less intimidating than I’d expected. She’d traded her black robes for a cardigan, and a low table in the corner was scattered with puzzles and building blocks, worn from use. It helped. A little.
Still, I sat beside Wade in the hallway, every muscle in my body drawn tight, watching the door close behind Cooper and knowing that whatever he said in that room… it would matter. Maybe more than anything else had up to this point.
Through the closed door, I could hear occasional laughter and Cooper's animated voice describing his life with Wade and me. His natural enthusiasm provided stark contrast to the adults' complicated legal arguments. Whatever he was telling Judge Morrison, it was making her laugh.
When Cooper emerged from chambers thirty minutes later, he ran straight to Wade and me, hugging both of us tightly.
"I told the judge about our family," he announced proudly. "I told her how you teach me about building things, Daddy, and how Mr. Mitchell helps me read hard words, and how we're all happy together."
His simple summary encompassed everything the lawyers had struggled to explain in hours of testimony.
Judge Morrison appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral, but I caught a slight smile as she observed Cooper's obvious comfort with both Wade and me. The child's natural affection and security in our presence spoke louder than any expert testimony about his emotional wellbeing.
"Mr. Mitchell," Cooper said while tugging on my sleeve, "I asked the judge why some grown-ups want to keep families apart when love makes people happy."
Out of the mouths of babes. Cooper's innocent question encapsulated the moral heart of our case, cutting through all the legal complexity to the essential human truth at stake.
"What did the judge say?" I asked.
"She said that's a very good question, and she's thinking about it very carefully."
The second day of hearings began with a parade of community members who'd observed Wade's parenting and Cooper's development. Parents from Cooper's soccer team described his confidence and enthusiasm. His current teacher talked about his academic improvement and social growth.
Mrs. Rowland from the school cafeteria testified about Cooper's excitement when describing family dinners with "Daddy and Mr. Mitchell.
" The crossing guard talked about Cooper's proud introductions of both Wade and me as his family.
Even old Mr. Kowalski described watching Cooper help Wade and me with yard work, noting the child's obvious happiness and sense of belonging.
Uncle John’s testimony provided crucial religious perspective, and I felt tears in my eyes watching him defend our family with theological scholarship and moral conviction.
"Many faith communities view love and family commitment as sacred regardless of gender," Uncle John explained to the packed courtroom.
"The biblical call to love one another, to care for children, to build families based on commitment and compassion—these values are embodied in the Harrison family.
Wade's authentic identity and loving relationship with Ezra demonstrate faith in action, not the moral failing suggested by the opposition. "
His scholarly presentation of theological support for inclusive families neutralized the religious arguments that had been used against Wade. Faith became our ally rather than our enemy.
Parents of my former students spoke on my behalf—teary-eyed and fiercely protective.
One mother described how her daughter came out of her shell that year because I always made space for quiet kids. Another parent shared how their son had started saying “Mr. Mitchell says kindness matters” at home like it was gospel.
They talked about the notes I sent home, the extra care I gave to kids having a hard day, the way I made every child feel seen.
It wasn’t the kind of testimony that came with big words or dramatic moments—but it was honest. And it mattered.
The Fletcher family's attempts to present opposing testimony fell flat as their witnesses revealed their own prejudices rather than legitimate concerns about Cooper's welfare.
Mrs. Garrett's testimony particularly backfired when she admitted under cross-examination that she'd never observed actual harm to Cooper, only her assumptions about "inappropriate influences. "
"So you have no direct evidence that Cooper has been harmed by his father's relationship?" Santos asked.
"Well, no, but children don't always show?—"
"You've testified that you believe the relationship is harmful, but you have no evidence of actual harm to Cooper specifically?"
"I suppose not, but?—"
"Thank you. No further questions."
Brook's testimony about the organized campaign against me exposed the systematic nature of the attack on our family. She presented emails, meeting notes, and recorded phone calls that revealed the discrimination as coordinated persecution rather than organic community concern.
"The harassment of Mr. Mitchell was planned and executed by a small group of individuals led by Richard Fletcher," Brook explained.
"They recruited like-minded parents, organized complaint letters, and coordinated their attack to maximize damage to both Mr. Mitchell's career and Mr. Harrison's custody prospects. "
By the time closing arguments began, the Fletcher family's moral authority had been thoroughly undermined by evidence of their own manipulation and control tactics.
Attorney Santos's closing argument wove together all our evidence into a powerful narrative about love, authenticity, and family.
"Your Honor, the evidence is clear. Cooper Harrison is a happy, healthy, thriving child who loves his father and the man who has become part of their family. The petitioners want you to separate this child from people he loves based on prejudice disguised as concern. Don't let them succeed."
She walked to where Wade and I sat, placing her hand on our clasped fingers.
"Love doesn't threaten children—it protects them. Authenticity doesn't harm families—it strengthens them. Cooper Harrison deserves to live with people who love him unconditionally, not people who would use him as a weapon in their war against acceptance."
The Fletcher family's closing argument sounded increasingly desperate as their attorney struggled to explain why separating a happy child from loving parents served his best interests.
Without evidence of actual harm, their case had been reduced to asking the court to enforce their personal prejudices.
Judge Morrison's deliberation felt endless. Wade and I sat with our supporters, the packed courtroom holding its breath for the decision that would determine not just our family's future, but the community's stance on inclusion and acceptance.
When Judge Morrison finally returned, her expression was carefully composed, but I thought I detected something that might have been satisfaction in her eyes.
"In the matter of Harrison versus Fletcher, regarding custody of the minor Cooper Harrison," she began, her voice carrying clearly through the silent courtroom. "This court finds that the child's best interests are served by maintaining full custody with his father, Wade Harrison."
The courtroom erupted in celebration, but Judge Morrison wasn't finished.
"Furthermore, the court finds no evidence that Mr. Harrison's relationship with Mr. Mitchell negatively impacts Cooper's development. To the contrary, the evidence suggests that this relationship has provided additional stability and support for the child."
She looked directly at the Fletcher family's table.
"The court is troubled by the apparent use of this child as a weapon in what appears to be a campaign of personal prejudice rather than genuine concern for his welfare. Custody disputes should focus on children's needs, not adults' biases."
Cooper ran to Wade and me, throwing his arms around both of us as we cried with relief and joy. Our family was officially protected, our love legally recognized, our right to exist authentically upheld by the justice system.
"We won?" Cooper asked, looking between Wade and me with wide eyes.
"We won, buddy," Wade said, his voice thick with tears. "We get to stay together."
"All three of us?"
"All three of us," I confirmed, pulling him closer.
We'd won more than custody. We'd won acceptance and dignity. We'd won the right to love openly and build the family that felt true to who we were. Most importantly, we'd won Cooper's future—a future where love was celebrated rather than feared, where authenticity was strength rather than liability.
Standing in that courthouse surrounded by people who'd fought for our family, holding the two people I loved most in the world, I felt something I hadn't experienced since this nightmare began: peace. Real, bone-deep peace that came from knowing we were finally safe.
We were finally home.