Page 86 of After the Rain

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 talkedabout 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.

TWENTY

THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

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