The California State Capitol building rises against the Sacramento sky. Its golden dome catching morning light. Kevin squeezes my hand as we walk up the steps. My testimony folder tucked under my arm.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"As ready as someone can be to argue for their own right to exist," I say.
Elena meets us in the lobby. Her energy crackling with the intensity of someone who's spent weeks preparing for this moment.
"Committee's filling up," she says. "Good mix of supporters and opposition. Remember---you're not just telling your story. You're explaining why sanctuary matters for everyone."
We take our seats in the gallery as the Senate Judiciary Committee comes to order. The room buzzes with the particular tension of democracy in action.
Senator Martinez calls the hearing to order. "Today we consider SB 185, the California Reproductive Freedom Shield Law. This legislation would protect individuals and entities from prosecution for providing or assisting with lawful reproductive healthcare across state lines."
The opposition testifies first. A stern-faced lawyer from a conservative legal foundation warns about "interstate criminal enterprises" and "undermining federalism." A religious liberty advocate speaks about "protecting conscience rights" and "traditional family values."
I listen to their words. The same language that chased us out of Florida. Dressed up in legal terminology but carrying the same underlying message: You don't belong. Your family isn't real.
Then it's my turn.
"Carlos Martinez," I say into the microphone. "Civil rights attorney, Cuban-American, husband to Kevin, and soon-to-be father through surrogacy."
I can feel Kevin's presence behind me. An anchor keeping me grounded.
"Eighteen months ago, my husband and I lived in Florida. We had jobs, community, roots three generations deep. We also had plans to start a family. Then Florida passed the Ethical IVF Act, making reproductive assistance available only to heterosexual married couples."
I pause. Let that sink in.
"We had a choice: abandon our home or abandon our dreams of parenthood. We chose to leave everything behind and come to California, where our love is legal and our family is possible."
Several committee members nod. Senator Chen takes notes.
"But our story isn't unique anymore. In preparing for this testimony, I've learned about networks of people--advocates, healthcare workers, app developers--who are building infrastructure to help families like mine access care across state lines."
I think about Aisha's voice over the encrypted call. About Mai's careful technical explanations.
"Without the shield law, these networks operate in the shadows. A nurse who answers a medication question could face extradition. An app developer who builds secure platforms could be subpoenaed. A driver who picks up someone at the airport could be sued for ten thousand dollars by a complete stranger."
Senator Williams leans forward. "Can you be more specific about these networks?"
I choose my words carefully. Remembering the trust placed in me.
"I spoke with a coordinator of mutual aid networks who helps connect women in restrictive states with leftover fertility medications. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, sharing resources because official systems have failed them. I also spoke with a developer who's built encrypted fertility tracking tools--bilingual, secure, designed to disappear if compromised."
I don't give names, locations, specifics that could endanger anyone. But I give enough to make it real.
"These aren't criminal enterprises. They're communities caring for each other when their governments won't. The shield law wouldn't just protect patients seeking care--it would protect the infrastructure of care itself."
Senator Rodriguez interjects. "How do we know this protection won't be abused?"
"Because," I say, and I think about my grandmother's words about fighting, about my father's rejection, about the choice between love and geography, "we're not asking for immunity from accountability. We're asking for protection from persecution. The difference is that accountability serves justice. Persecution serves ideology."
I lean into the microphone.
"Senators, my husband and I didn't want to become refugees in our own country. But when forced to choose between our home and our humanity, we chose humanity. California welcomed us. It offered us sanctuary when our own state criminalized our dreams."
My voice catches slightly, but I push through.
"The shield law would formalize what California already is: a place where families can be built without apology. Where love doesn't need permission from hostile legislators. Where the infrastructure of care is protected, not prosecuted."
I glance back at Kevin. Drawing strength from his steady presence.
"I'm not just asking you to protect families like mine. I'm asking you to protect the quiet heroes who make families like mine possible. The advocates working encrypted phones at midnight. The developers writing code that could land them in prison in other states. The nurses who risk their licenses to answer desperate questions."
I close my folder. My prepared remarks finished.
"Pass this law not just because it's right, but because it's necessary. Because sanctuary isn't a luxury--it's a lifeline. And because the future is being built by people who refuse to let geography determine their humanity."
The room is quiet for a moment after I finish. Then Senator Martinez nods.
"Thank you, Mr. Martinez. That was... illuminating."
As I walk back to my seat, I feel something I haven't felt since leaving Florida: the electric possibility that change might actually be achievable. Not just for us, but for everyone still running, still hiding, still building solutions in the shadows.
Elena catches my eye and nods. Behind her, I notice other advocates typing furiously on their phones. Probably sharing quotes, building momentum, translating my words into action.
Kevin takes my hand as I sit down.
"How do you feel?" he whispers.
"Like we just did something that mattered," I whisper back.
Three hours later, after more testimony, debate, and political theater, the committee votes. Seven to four in favor of SB 185.
Outside on the capitol steps, Elena's practically glowing.
"That was exactly what we needed," she says. "Your testimony cut through all the political noise and made it personal. Made it real."
As we walk back to our car, Kevin's arm around my shoulders, I think about Aisha and Mai. About the networks operating in encrypted shadows. About all the families still making impossible choices between home and hope.
"What's next?" Kevin asks.
"Full Senate vote in two weeks," Elena says. "Then the Assembly. Then the governor's desk."
I nod, but I'm already thinking beyond California. About other states that might follow this lead. About federal legislation that might protect digital sanctuary nationwide.
"And after that?"
Elena grins. "After that, we keep building. Other states are watching. Congress is watching. You just helped prove that sanctuary isn't just a California value--it's an American necessity."
That night, back in our West Hollywood apartment, I get two messages.
The first, from an encrypted number: "Thank you. Your words today protected people you'll never meet in places you'll never visit. --A"
The second, from another encrypted contact: "Infrastructure of care. Perfect phrase. Will use it in my next build. --M"
I show the messages to Kevin. He smiles with the quiet satisfaction of someone who's watched his husband fight for their family and win.
"Think it'll pass?" he asks.
"I think," I say, pulling him close, "that we just proved something important. That individual stories, when connected to infrastructure, become movements. That personal is political, but political can also be protective."
I rest my head against his chest. Listening to the steady rhythm that's anchored me through every storm.
"And I think California is about to become officially what it's always been for us: sanctuary."
Two weeks later, the California Senate passes SB 185 by a margin of 28 to 12. The Assembly follows suit three weeks after that. Governor Newsom signs it into law on a Tuesday morning.
I watch the signing ceremony on livestream from my office. Kevin beside me. Our surrogate Latonya texting updates about her latest appointment. Our daughter--still weeks away from arriving--will be born into a world where sanctuary is codified into law.
That evening, Elena calls.
"Carlos? How does it feel to help change history?"
I look around our apartment. The legal documents scattered on our table. The baby clothes Kevin's been quietly accumulating. The maps on our wall marking all the places we've been and the place we've chosen to build our future.
"It feels like the beginning," I say.
And it is.
The California Reproductive Freedom Shield Law becomes a model. Other states introduce similar legislation. Federal hearings are scheduled. The underground networks I testified about start emerging from the shadows. No longer criminals but advocates. No longer hiding but organizing.
Six months later, I'm invited to testify before a Congressional subcommittee about interstate reproductive restrictions. The room is bigger, the stakes higher, the audience broader.
But the message is the same: sanctuary isn't just a California value. It's a human necessity.
And the infrastructure of care--built by people like Aisha and Mai, protected by laws like the one I helped pass--that infrastructure doesn't just connect families to services.
It connects us to each other. To possibility. To a future where geography doesn't determine humanity.
Where love, finally, is enough.