Page 94 of After the Rain

"See? Papa Ezra thinks all my ideas are good."

"Papa Ezra thinks some of your ideas are good," Ezra corrected. "The periscope idea is excellent. The idea about putting a hot tub in the treehouse might need some more thought."

Our first Christmas in the new house arrived with the chaos and joy of established family traditions. Cooper tore through presents while Ezra and I drank coffee from mugs that said "World's Best Dad" and "World's Best Papa"—Cooper's contribution to our Christmas decorations.

The tree stood in the corner of the living room, surrounded by gifts from friends who'd become chosen family. Jazz had made Cooper a wooden toy box painted with dinosaurs. Brook had given us a photo album documenting our journey from the first community meeting through the court victory. Sarah and her girlfriend Maria had contributed family game night supplies and a promise to visit monthly.

"Papa Ezra, help me build this spaceship!" Cooper called from the pile of LEGO boxes he'd accumulated.

The casual use of "Papa" still made both our eyes water with happiness. Our family structure had become so natural and secure that Cooper included Ezra in all family activities without thought or explanation.

The doorbell brought Jazz with her traditional Christmas morning breakfast casserole, followed by Brook and her family, then Kane and Maria with their own children. The house filled with chosen family celebrating together, demonstrating that love creates community more effectively than biology or tradition.

My phone rang throughout the day with Christmas calls from unexpected sources—former clients who'd returned with new projects, neighbors who'd become genuine friends, even distant relatives who'd reached out to rebuild relationships damaged by prejudice. Authenticity had attracted more meaningful connections than performance ever had.

"This is what I dreamed about without knowing I was dreaming it," I told Ezra that evening as we curled together on the couch, Cooper asleep between us, surrounded by the debris of perfect family Christmas.

"What do you mean?"

"This. Family Christmas that feels real instead of performed. A house that's actually our home. People who love us for who we are, not who they think we should be."

"It's pretty perfect," Ezra agreed.

"It's everything I never knew I wanted."

Spring brought the completion of Fort Awesome, which had evolved into something more elaborate than any of us had originally planned. The treehouse now featured the requested rope ladder, a working periscope (Jazz's engineering contribution), and windows that Cooper could open and close for "optimal fortress management."

The dedication ceremony was a family affair, with Cooper cutting a ribbon Jazz had hung across the entrance while Ezra and I provided official applause.

"I hereby declare Fort Awesome officially open for business," Cooper announced with eight-year-old gravity.

"What kind of business?" I asked.

"The business of being awesome."

"That's the best kind of business," Ezra said solemnly.

That evening, as we sat on our back porch watching Cooper play in his treehouse, I felt a completeness I'd never experienced before. The legal battles were behind us, our community had embraced our family, and we'd built something beautiful from all the pain and uncertainty we'd endured.

"We did it," I said to Ezra, watching our son lower a bucket from his treehouse window in some elaborate game that made perfect sense to him.

"We did what?"

"We built something real. Something lasting. Something worth fighting for."

"This is just the beginning of our story," Ezra said, taking my hand as fireflies began their evening dance across our yard.

He was right. After the rain comes the rainbow, and ours stretched endlessly across the sky of our shared future. We'd survived the storm, built our fortress, and claimed our place in the world.

FIVE YEARS LATER

WADE

Five 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.

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