Five days later, Latonya, Kevin and I were in Dr. Ramirez's office for the embryo transfer.
The air felt different, charged with possibility the way it feels right before lightning strikes—dangerous and electric and beautiful all at once.
She showed us two blastocysts with AA ratings—"your best shot," she said, pointing to images that looked like abstract art but contained everything we'd been hoping for.
Tiny clusters of cells that might become a person, that might become our person.
We hadn't done genetic testing.
Honestly?
I wasn't sure I wanted it.
Choosing which embryo based on chromosomes or gender felt like playing favorites with futures we hadn't met yet, like my grandmother choosing which grandchild got the biggest piece of cake before she knew who needed the extra sweetness.
Letting go of that control felt scary.
But it also felt right.
Like maybe we were trusting life to do what it was going to do anyway, the way water finds its own path down a mountain without asking permission from the rocks.
My phone buzzes quietly with an encrypted message from Elena. "Two more states introducing shield legislation. Your testimony is making waves." I show Kevin, who smiles but doesn't look up from Dr. Ramirez. "Good," he says simply. "But right now, let's focus on our family."
The transfer went smoothly.
Dr. Ramirez's hands steady as my grandmother's when she used to thread needles in lamplight, working with tiny things that required enormous care.
And then: the wait.
Dr. Ramirez had explained that the first step would happen about 9 to 11 days after transfer: bloodwork to check for hCG, the pregnancy hormone.
If the levels were high enough—and kept rising in the days after—it would be a good early sign the pregnancy was progressing.
After the appointment, the three of us stepped outside into the warm afternoon.
We stood there for a second, just the three of us.
No big speeches.
Just a shared breath.
Then Latonya looked at us and said, "We're doing this."
And she smiled like she meant it.
Kevin and I smiled back.
We are doing this.
Together.
In a state where doing this is legal.
Where our team includes doctors who see us as parents from day one.
Where the law protects what we're building instead of trying to tear it down.
The wait would be long.
But for the first time since leaving Florida, the future felt not just possible—but protected.