The soft chime of the video call connecting fills the room with tension. Kevin and I sit on the couch, knees touching. His hand wrapped around mine---steady, even though I can feel the tightness in his grip.
His parents appear on the screen. Linda's face warm, open. Robert's harder to read. Familiar, but unsure.
"Hi Mom. Dad," Kevin says. His voice carries the weight of all the conversations we've practiced in our heads.
"Hi sweetheart. Carlos," Linda says, smiling. Robert gives a small nod. Tight, but not cold. The kind of nod that says he's trying.
We catch them up. The donor. The sperm decision. The surrogate. The move from Florida that made it all possible.
Linda asks questions that feel like hands reaching across distance. Not performative---curious. Present in the way that matters. Robert mostly listens. A few nods. A furrowed brow. But he stays.
Kevin clears his throat. "We're... really doing this," he says. "You're going to be grandparents."
Linda's eyes shine. "Oh honey," she says, and her voice breaks just a little. "We're so happy for you both."
Robert's voice is quieter. Like he's testing the words before he commits to them. "It's... a lot. But we're here. You need us, we'll be there."
When the call ends, I feel something loosen in Kevin's shoulders. His parents might not fully understand yet. But they're trying. They're in it.
Then he turns to me. His voice softer now. "Your turn." He gives my hand a squeeze. "You don't have to do this alone."
I nod. Dial.
"¿Hola?" My mother's voice, tired but familiar. The sound of home that doesn't want me anymore.
"Hola, Mamá," I say. "¿Está Papá contigo? I have something I need to tell you both."
The pause stretches.
Some shuffling. Then: "¿Qué pasa, Carlos?" My father's voice. Sharp edges, even before I've said a word.
I breathe in. "Mamá, Papá... Kevin and I---we're going to have a baby. Through surrogacy."
Silence. The kind that swallows sound and spits back judgment.
Then: "¿Qué?" My father's voice rises. "¿Qué tontería es esta?"
"It's not nonsense," I say, careful, calm. "We're building a family."
"A family?" he snaps. I can hear him pacing. "Two men cannot make a child. This is not a family. This is a sin against God and nature."
I feel it rising in me---the old ache, the old anger. Still, I try. "Papá, por favor---"
"No, Carlos." His voice hardens. "You've already turned away from God. But this? This is too much. This is shameful."
And something in me fractures.
"No," I say. Louder than I meant to. "You didn't raise me. Not really. You raised someone who was scared all the time. Who learned how to disappear just to survive."
Kevin shifts beside me, but I keep going.
"You don't have to accept it. But you don't get to insult my family. You don't get to call our child an abomination before they're even born."
There's a pause. Then his voice again, cold as stone. "Then you are no son of mine."
The line goes dead.
The silence after is heavy. Sharp.
Kevin pulls me into his arms before I even realize I'm crying.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have yelled."
"No," Kevin says. "You stood up for us. You told the truth."
I sit with that. Let it sink in.
In Florida, their rejection would have felt like the final word. The state and my parents aligned against us. Here, it just feels... distant. Like an echo from a life we've already left behind.
"What do we do now?" I ask.
Kevin pulls back. "We move forward," he says. "With the people who show up. With love, not shame."
I nod. Slowly. It's not okay, but it's true.
"Okay," I whisper. "We move forward. Together."
The phone rings again an hour later.
"Carlos? It's Elena again. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
I look at Kevin. His face still marked by the emotional weight of the evening. "Actually, Elena, it might be exactly the right time. What's up?"
"I've been thinking about your testimony. We need you to understand not just the legal implications of the shield law, but the human networks it would protect." She pauses. "I have someone I'd like you to talk to."
The timing feels like the universe offering purpose in the middle of pain. "Tell me more."
"She's careful. Uses encrypted communications. Doesn't share real names. But she can help you understand what this law would mean for people operating underground networks."
After everything that just happened with my parents, the idea of channeling this energy into protecting others feels like exactly what I need. "Set it up."
Two days later, I'm in my car outside a coffee shop. Connected to a Signal call with someone who introduces herself only as "A." Her video is off. Her voice careful, measured.
"Elena says you're testifying about the California shield law," she says. "That you want to understand what protection would mean for people like me."
"That's right. I need to help legislators understand not just the legal theory, but the human reality."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"I help coordinate a mutual aid network. Women in restrictive states---Alabama, Texas, Mississippi---they need medications they can't get legally anymore. Leftover fertility drugs, emergency contraception, sometimes just clean syringes."
I'm taking notes, but I stop writing. "How many people?"
"Hundreds. Maybe thousands. The need keeps growing."
She tells me about the infrastructure they've built. Encrypted apps, burner phones, careful vetting processes. How they move medications across state lines like an underground railroad for reproductive care.
"What would the California shield law mean for your work?"
Her voice brightens slightly. "It would mean that when someone helps a Texas woman get to a California clinic, they can't be prosecuted here for that assistance. It would mean coordinators like me could operate without fear of extradition."
As she talks, I feel something shift. This isn't just about individual stories of persecution. It's about entire networks of care that exist because official systems have failed.
"Why are you willing to talk to me?"
"Because staying invisible only works if the laws stay stable. But they're not staying stable. And maybe..." She pauses. "Maybe it's time for some of us to risk being seen. Even if it's just our voices."
Before our call ends, she mentions something else. "There's someone else you should know about. A developer who's built an encrypted fertility tracking app. Vietnamese-American, based somewhere in Texas. Goes by Mai in our networks."
"Would she be willing to talk?"
"Maybe. I can reach out."
Three days later, another encrypted message arrives. Just a Signal username and a time.
At exactly nine, my phone buzzes. When I answer, there's a pause, then a voice---younger, careful but with a different kind of wariness.
"Elena said you wanted to understand the technical side," the voice says. No introduction, no pleasantries. "I'm Mai. I build tools."
"Tools?"
"Encrypted fertility tracking. Bilingual interface. Designed to disappear if compromised." Her words are precise, economical. "A told me about your testimony."
"Tell me about what you've built."
"App-based mutual aid network. Secure messaging for medication sharing. Location services that can't be tracked." She pauses. "It's not just a fertility app. It's digital sanctuary."
"And the shield law would protect this kind of work?"
For the first time, her voice carries something that might be hope. "It would mean I could develop without looking over my shoulder. Mean users in California couldn't be subpoenaed for their data."
She tells me about the features. Panic buttons that wipe data. Encrypted chat for peer support. How she built it after a friend lost her job for discussing reproductive options with patients.
"You're doing this alone?"
"Not exactly. There's a community. Developers, healthcare workers, advocates. We work in cells---most of us don't know each other's real names."
"What would happen if the shield law doesn't pass?"
The pause is long. Then: "We keep building anyway. But in the shadows. Always one leak away from everything falling apart."
"And if it does pass?"
"Then maybe we come out of the shadows. Maybe digital sanctuary becomes as real as physical sanctuary."
After she hangs up, I sit with my laptop open. Staring at notes from both conversations. Aisha's mutual aid networks. Mai's encrypted platforms. Two pieces of the same puzzle.
Not just individuals seeking help. But entire networks of care operating beyond the reach of hostile laws.
I open a new document and start typing: "The California Reproductive Freedom Shield Law would protect more than individual patients seeking care across state lines. It would protect the infrastructure of care itself..."
That night, Kevin finds me at the kitchen table. Laptop open, legal pads scattered around me.
"What's all this?"
"Testimony prep," I say. "But it's not just about us anymore, Kevin. There are entire networks of people building solutions while legislators debate problems."
He sits beside me. Scans my notes. "These people---they're putting themselves at risk to help strangers?"
"Every day."
Kevin leans back. "Your grandmother was right, wasn't she? The fighting never stops."
I nod. "But this time, I'm not fighting for abstract principles. I'm fighting for people who are building the solutions."
I close my laptop. Turn to face him. "And after what happened with my parents tonight... I need this. I need to know that our pain can protect other families."
He reaches for my hand. "Then let's make sure they listen."
For the first time since my father's words cut through me, I feel something rising to replace the ache: purpose.
The testimony is still a week away. But the real work has already begun.