Page 46 of After the Rain
WADE
F ive years. Five years since the day Judge Morrison handed down her ruling and gave us back our family.
Five years since the community of Cedar Falls chose love over hatred, authenticity over prejudice.
Five years of building the life I'd dreamed about in that Victorian house backyard while my world was falling apart.
Now I stood in Riverside Park on a Sunday evening, watching Ezra push Cooper on the swing set we'd helped the city install two years ago.
The park had been transformed since our first kiss on that bench—walking trails wound through new gardens, inclusive playground equipment welcomed children of all abilities, and a small memorial garden honored "families of all kinds. "
Our fight for acceptance had created lasting change that benefited every child in Cedar Falls. But tonight wasn't about the community we'd helped transform. Tonight was about the family we'd become.
My hands trembled as I adjusted the small velvet box in my pocket for the hundredth time today.
I'd been carrying it for three weeks, waiting for the perfect moment, the right words, the courage to ask the question that would make our family official in every way that mattered.
Every day I'd found an excuse—Cooper had homework, Ezra was tired from work, the weather wasn't right, maybe tomorrow would be better.
But three weeks of maybes had taught me something: there would never be a perfect moment. There would only be this moment, with the man I loved and the son who'd helped me pick out the ring, in the place where our love story had truly begun.
The ring had been Cooper's idea, actually. Not the proposal itself—that had been brewing in my heart for months—but the ring design, the engraving, the coordinates of this exact spot.
So here we were, in our special place, and I was terrified.
Five years of being together, of building a life and a family, of surviving legal battles and community prejudice, and I was scared to ask one question.
What if he said no? What if he wasn't ready?
What if five years of partnership didn't translate to a lifetime commitment?
"Dad, you're doing that thing again," Cooper called from the swing, his voice carrying the exasperated patience of a pre-teen who'd been keeping this secret for weeks.
"What thing?"
"That nervous face thing. The same face you made before you told me about Papa Ezra. And before the court hearing. And that time you burned dinner because you were thinking too hard."
Ezra laughed, walking toward me with the easy smile that still made my heart skip after five years together. "What's Cooper talking about? You do look nervous. And he's been acting suspicious all week."
My throat felt dry. This was it. This was the moment I'd been both dreading and anticipating for weeks.
I looked at Ezra, really looked at him—the late afternoon sunlight catching the silver threads in his blonde hair that I'd been noticing more lately, the laugh lines around his eyes that deepened when he smiled at me, the man who'd weathered every storm by my side.
"I'm nervous because..." I started, then stopped. Jesus, why was this so hard? I'd faced down hostile lawyers and prejudiced judges. I'd stood up to an entire community's disapproval. But asking the man I loved to marry me felt like the scariest thing I'd ever attempted.
"Because what?" Ezra prompted gently, his expression shifting from amused to concerned.
Cooper was grinning from the swing set, clearly fighting the urge to spill the secret he'd been carrying. "Dad, just ask him already! I already picked out my suit for the wedding!"
Jesus. Leave it to my eleven-year-old to blow my cover with all the subtlety of a construction site.
But maybe that was exactly what I needed—my son's fearless approach to love, his absolute certainty that the people who mattered would always say yes to happiness.
Ezra laughed, walking toward me with the easy smile that still made my heart skip after five years together. "What's Cooper talking about? He's been acting suspicious all week."
"Cooper's talking about this," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs as I moved toward our bench.
I marvelled that this incredible man had chosen to build a life with me despite everything we'd endured. The custody battle, the community harassment, the legal fees that had nearly bankrupted us, the months of uncertainty when we'd wondered if love would be enough.
It had been enough. More than enough.
Ezra's eyes went wide, his hand flying to his mouth as I pulled out the ring I'd designed with Cooper's help.
Simple platinum band engraved with "After the Rain" and the GPS coordinates of this exact spot where we'd shared our first kiss, our first real conversation, our first glimpse of the future we wanted to build together.
"Ezra Mitchell," I began, my voice steadier than I'd expected. "You've been my partner, my best friend, and Cooper's second father for five years. You've weathered every storm with us, fought every battle beside us, and made our house a home filled with laughter and love."
I looked up at him, this man who'd risked everything to love us openly, who'd stood with me in courtrooms and community meetings, who'd helped me become the father Cooper deserved and the man I'd always been afraid to be.
"Will you marry me? Will you make our family official in every way that matters?"
Ezra's tearful "yes" came before I'd even finished speaking, followed by a kiss that tasted like promise and permanence and the future we'd fought so hard to secure.
Cooper whooped from the swing set, already bouncing with excitement. "Can Jazz walk me down the aisle? Can Uncle John do the ceremony? Can we have the reception at the park? Can we invite everyone in the whole town?"
"Yes to all of that," I promised, gathering my son and fiancé into a group hug that encompassed our entire found family. "Everyone who fought for our right to love each other deserves to celebrate with us."
As I slipped the ring onto Ezra's finger, I thought about the journey that had brought us here.
Cooper had grown into the confident, empathetic child we'd always known he could be.
Now a sixth-grader who served as peer mediator for the school's anti-bullying program, he played travel soccer, excelled in advanced mathematics, and had recently won the district science fair with a project on renewable energy systems.
His two-dad family was so normalized among his classmates that younger students often asked why some families only had one dad. Cooper's answer, delivered with eleven-year-old wisdom: "Families are made of love, not rules."
His relationship with Sarah remained strong, with shared custody that worked seamlessly.
My business had thrived beyond my wildest dreams. Harrison-Mitchell Architecture now employed twelve people and had contracts throughout the Pacific Northwest for LGBTQ+-friendly housing developments and accessible public buildings.
The Henderson office renovation that had started during my identity crisis had become a model for sustainable, inclusive workplace design.
I'd never intended to become an activist, but my willingness to fight for our family's rights had opened doors to advocacy work I found deeply meaningful.
I spoke at conferences about authentic leadership and workplace diversity, sharing our story with audiences who needed to hear that love could triumph over institutional prejudice.
Three other gay fathers in Cedar Falls had consulted with me about custody battles, all of which resolved more easily thanks to the legal precedent our case had established. Each victory felt personal, like we were building a foundation for the next family, the next child who needed protection.
Ezra had been promoted to Director of Inclusive Education for the school district, transforming Cedar Falls Elementary's approach to diversity, family structures, and anti-bullying initiatives.
His curriculum changes had been adopted by school districts across Oregon, and he was completing his doctoral dissertation on "LGBTQ+ Educators as Agents of Social Change in Rural Communities. "
The classroom where he'd once feared losing his job now served as a training center for other teachers learning inclusive practices. His story had inspired three other LGBTQ+ educators to move to Cedar Falls, creating a small but supportive professional community.
He still taught one kindergarten class each semester because, as he told me regularly, "That's where the magic happens—teaching five-year-olds that love comes in all colors and configurations."
The people who'd tried to destroy our family had faded into irrelevance or faced the consequences of their actions.
Richard Fletcher's legal career had ended in disgrace when his business practices finally caught up with him.
A federal investigation into construction bid-rigging and tax evasion had resulted in criminal charges, asset forfeiture, and eventual bankruptcy.
The man who'd tried to destroy us with money and influence now worked as a night security guard, his reputation and resources completely depleted. There was no satisfaction in his downfall—just relief that his capacity to hurt other families had been neutralized.
Margaret Fletcher had suffered a stroke during Richard's legal troubles and now lived in assisted care.
Sarah visited her mother monthly but maintained firm boundaries about discussion of our family.
According to Sarah, Margaret's last coherent words had been a whispered apology for "making everything so hard when love should be simple. "
Whether she'd truly changed or simply become too weak to maintain her hatred remained unclear. Either way, she was no longer a threat to our peace.