Page 96 of After the Rain

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+ educatorsto 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.

The Fletcher estate had been sold to pay legal fees and restitution. The new owners, a young interracial couple with twin daughters, had installed rainbow wind chimes in the garden and flew a Pride flag during June. Life had a sense of poetic justice sometimes.

Mrs. Garrett's campaign against Ezra had backfired spectacularly when her harassment was exposed during ourcourt proceedings. Her own family, had publicly disavowed her behavior.

She'd moved to another state after losing custody and facing social ostracism in Cedar Falls. Her replacement as head of the parent organization was Maria, Kane’s wife, who had transformed the group into an advocate for inclusive families and anti-bullying initiatives.

Mrs. Garrett's legacy was exactly the opposite of what she'd intended.

Dr. Williams had been promoted to superintendent three years ago, partly based on her skillful handling of the discrimination complaints against Ezra. The district now had some of the most progressive anti-discrimination policies in the state, attracting federal funding for inclusive education initiatives.

The school board that had once considered firing Ezra now featured three openly LGBTQ+ members, including Tom Bradley's daughter, who'd been inspired by our courage to run for public office.

Change happened one election at a time, one heart at a time, one family's courage inspiring others to be brave.

The small conservative town that had once tried to destroy our family had become a model for rural LGBTQ+ acceptance. The annual Diversity and Inclusion Festival now drew visitors from across the region, bringing tourism revenue and national recognition. Three LGBTQ+-owned businesses had opened downtown, and the city council had passed a comprehensive non-discrimination ordinance with overwhelming public support.

Even the Moonbeam Diner had been transformed. It now featured a "Love is Love" corner booth with rainbow cushions and photos of all the couples who'd had their first dates there, including one of Ezra and me from our early nervouscoffee meetings. The owner, inspired by our story, had created a scholarship fund for LGBTQ+ students pursuing education degrees.

The diner's coffee mugs featured the slogan "Brewed with Pride" and rainbow handles. Every time I saw them, I remembered sitting there with Ezra, both of us terrified and hopeful and falling in love despite every reason to protect ourselves.

"When should we have the wedding?" Ezra asked, admiring his ring while leaning against my shoulder as we sat on our bench.

"Tomorrow," I replied immediately. "I've waited five years to call you my husband. I don't want to wait any longer."

"Can we at least wait until I finish the school year?" Ezra laughed. "June would be perfect. Pride month feels appropriate for our wedding."

Cooper bounced between us with the excited energy of a child planning the best party ever. "Can we have it at the park? Can Jazz be my best man? Can we invite everyone?"

"Everyone who fought for our right to love each other deserves to celebrate with us," I promised.

As the sun set over the river where our love story began, Cooper took photos of us with my phone. Our engagement photo would join dozens of others on the Moonbeam Diner's wall of love, but more importantly, it represented the completion of a journey from fear to authenticity, from hiding to celebration, from legal battle to legal recognition.

Our Victorian housewelcomed us home with the porch light glowing warm and yellow in the gathering dusk. The housewhere I'd first told Ezra I loved him, where we'd built the life we'd dreamed about in that backyard surrounded by oak trees and possibility.

Fort Awesome stood proud in the backyard, now featuring improvements Cooper had designed and implemented over the years. The treehouse had become neighborhood headquarters for kids whose parents felt safe letting them play in our yard, knowing they'd be welcomed and protected regardless of their family structure.

"I can't believe we're getting married," Ezra said as we settled on our front porch swing, Cooper racing inside to call everyone he could think of with the news.

"I can't believe it took me five years to ask."

"You asked when you were ready. When we were ready."

I thought about that first terrified conversation in Dr. Marlow’s office, when I'd barely been able to admit I was attracted to men, let alone imagine building a life with one. The journey from that moment to this one had required more courage than I'd known I possessed, but it had led us here—to this porch, this family, this love that had survived every attempt to destroy it.

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