We exchange a look.
Same quiet determination in both our eyes, the kind that comes from years of fighting battles other people never have to think about.
Slow nod.
"We need to address this," I say when the nurse returns.
Lawyer mode kicking in, but soft, the way I've learned to speak when I need something from a system that wasn't designed with people like me in mind.
"These forms don't seem designed for same-sex couples. Do you have anything more inclusive?"
She blinks, caught off guard like someone who's never had to think about what it means when the world assumes you don't exist.
Recovers quick, though.
Professional training taking over personal surprise.
"Oh, I... I'm not sure. Let me check with the doctor."
She hurries out, leaving us in the small room with its motivational posters and pamphlets about "your fertility journey"—all featuring couples who look nothing like us.
Kevin offers a small smile, the one he uses with nervous patients.
"We did the right thing," he says, and his voice carries the weight of someone who's spent his whole career advocating for people who can't advocate for themselves.
Minutes stretch long like the silences between my father's words when he's deciding whether to forgive or condemn.
Then the doctor walks in, Dr. Ramirez herself, expression serious but open in a way that reminds me of the good judges—the ones who actually listen before they decide.
"Mr. and Mr. Martinez," she says, and the way she says both our names with equal weight feels like recognition, like citizenship in a country that had previously refused to acknowledge our passport.
"I understand you have concerns about our paperwork."
We explain, tag-teaming the way we've learned to do over years of navigating systems together.
How the forms feel like barriers built into the foundation of the building, invisible unless you're the one running into them.
Not just for us, but for any couple outside the narrow definition of what family is supposed to look like according to whoever designed these forms decades ago.
Kevin speaks to the emotional weight—how it feels to be erased before you even start.
I focus on why inclusivity matters in healthcare, why representation isn't just political correctness but actual medical necessity.
She listens.
"You're absolutely right," she admits, and something in her voice tells me this isn't the first time she's had this conversation, that other couples have sat in these chairs pointing out the same obvious oversight.
"This is an oversight on our part. We pride ourselves on cutting-edge reproductive technology, but our paperwork hasn't kept up with our values."
She leans forward, thoughtful in the way that suggests she's already solving the problem in her head.
"We don't have alternative forms yet, but here's what I propose: let's go through this together.
You tell me which parts don't apply, and we'll make notes. And if you're willing, I'd love your help crafting more inclusive forms for future patients. Your perspective would be invaluable."
Kevin and I share a glance.
Hope flickering between us like the candles my grandmother lit for her santos, small flames that somehow made the whole room feel safer.
"We'd be honored," Kevin says, and I can hear in his voice the same tone he uses when talking to parents about their children—respectful, committed, understanding that he's been entrusted with something precious.
I nod, feeling something shift in the room.
The kind of shift that happens when strangers decide to become allies, when individual problems reveal themselves to be shared concerns.
Working side by side with the doctor, the atmosphere transforms.
What started as frustration over exclusion turns into something else—possibility.
The possibility that change doesn't always have to be fought for from the outside, that sometimes systems can be nudged from within by people willing to speak up.
We're not just filling out forms anymore.
We're clearing a path for the couples who'll come after us, the ones who shouldn't have to explain their existence before they can request basic services.
In Florida, this conversation wouldn't have been possible.
The exclusion would have been by design, written into law rather than just oversight.
We didn't just move across the country.
We moved into a place where change is possible, where good faith exists, where pointing out problems can lead to solutions rather than just making you a target.
The process takes longer than usual, but it doesn't feel like wasted time.
It feels like citizenship.
Like being seen and counted and planned for.
When we finish, the doctor thanks us with genuine gratitude, the kind that comes from recognizing you've been part of making something better.
"Your advocacy today will make a difference," she says.
"Now, let's talk about your fertility options."
Dr. Ramirez leans back, her tone shifting into the steady professionalism that makes you trust her with your most important dreams.
"For same-sex male couples like yourselves, the ART journey involves several key steps, and I want to walk you through each one so you know what to expect."
She outlines the process with the methodical care of someone explaining a recipe that's been perfected over time. Choose an egg donor—review profiles like you're selecting a collaborator in the most important project of your life. Decide whose sperm to use, or mix both if you prefer—a choice that feels both scientific and deeply personal. Sperm analysis to check quality and make sure everything is working the way it should.
Kevin and I exchange a look as the reality settles in like morning light filling a room.
This is actually happening.
After years of dreaming and months of displacement, we're sitting in a doctor's office discussing the practical steps toward parenthood.
"Next," she continues, "you'll need a gestational carrier—a surrogate.
This involves working with an agency, extensive screening for health and psychological readiness, and legal contracts that protect everyone involved.
You'll need a lawyer who specializes in reproductive law, someone who understands the specific challenges same-sex couples face."
She explains IVF with the same careful attention to detail.
Fertilizing the eggs, culturing embryos in conditions that mimic the body's own environment, options for genetic testing if you choose.
Then transfer to your carrier and close monitoring throughout the pregnancy.
Each step requiring trust—in science, in other people, in the process itself.
"Throughout this journey," she adds, her voice carrying the weight of experience, "there will be legal hurdles, especially for same-sex couples who've had to relocate from restrictive states.
It's complex, but we'll guide you through every step. You won't be navigating this alone."
As the details unfold, I feel renewed purpose.
This is more than building our family—though that would be enough.
It's part of a bigger movement, a quiet revolution happening in doctors' offices and lawyers' conferences and hospital rooms.
People demanding recognition, equality, the right to love forward into the future.
In every step we take, every form we fill out, every time we show up as ourselves without apology.
I glance at Kevin, seeing the same mix of hope and uncertainty reflected back, but also something new—determination.
We've already proven we can survive displacement, can rebuild after loss.
Now we get to prove we can create something beautiful from all that surviving and rebuilding.
This is just the beginning.
Challenging, yes—every important thing is.
But also a reminder of the power that comes from speaking up, from being visible, from refusing to accept that the world wasn't built for people like us.
In states where visibility isn't criminal, where love doesn't violate any statutes, where family can take the shape it needs to take.
Leaving the clinic with our first tests scheduled and a folder full of information, we feel cautiously optimistic in a way that feels almost foreign after months of uncertainty.
We crossed the first hurdle and maybe—hopefully—made it easier for those who follow.
Proved that change is possible when people are willing to listen, when institutions are willing to evolve.
Hand in hand in the California sunshine, walking toward our car and our temporary apartment and our uncertain but legal future, we wonder what challenges lie ahead.
What opportunities.
What moments of grace we haven't imagined yet on this complicated, deeply personal path to parenthood that's also somehow bigger than just us.
That night, the weight lingered—forms and policies and expectations, the machinery of bureaucracy grinding slowly toward inclusion.
But it wasn't just about us anymore.
It was about the next couple who won't have to explain why the forms don't fit them.
About the slow, essential work of making the world a little more welcoming for people whose love doesn't fit the templates.
After dinner, we sat quiet for a while, neither reaching for the remote.
The world outside our window felt bigger than ever—just as complicated, but somehow more hopeful.
Like we'd discovered that change was possible, that systems could bend if you knew how to apply the right pressure at the right moment with the right combination of patience and insistence.
But for the first time since Florida, it felt like the complications might bend our way.
Like we'd found a place where being ourselves wasn't just tolerated but valued, where our perspective could contribute to something larger than our individual need.
Where love could be ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.