After the clinic, we knew. We weren't moving forward without legal backup. Not after what Florida taught us.
I'm a lawyer, sure. But I don't pretend to know family law the way I know civil rights. This stuff---parentage orders, surrogacy contracts, donor agreements---it's different. And we're starting from scratch.
So we do what we always do: research, cross-reference, look for someone who gets it. That's how we find her---Samantha Ruiz. California-based, sharp as a scalpel. Rep for navigating LGBTQ+ family law like she wrote the book.
We book an appointment.
Her office is nothing like the fertility clinic. No pastel walls or baby photos. Just clean lines, leather chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling view that says: I win cases. Reminds me of the office I left behind in Miami. The partnership track I walked away from.
Kevin's fingers lace into mine as we sit across from her. Forties, polished blazer, no-nonsense bun. Eyes that are kind, but sharp.
"Carlos. Kevin," she says, easing into her chair. "I understand you relocated from Florida?"
"Yeah," I say. "The new law made it complicated."
She nods. "I've been getting a lot of calls from couples in your situation. Families forced to choose between their home and their future."
The word hits hard. Refugee. That's what we are. Exiles from our own state.
"Let's talk about what that means---legally---now that you're here," she continues. "My job is to make sure no judge, hospital, or bureaucrat can question your right to be your child's parents."
In Florida, we were invisible. Here, at least, the system sees us. We didn't just cross state lines. We crossed into a place where our love isn't criminal.
Kevin leans in. "What's different here?"
Samantha's smile is small but steady. "Everything. California recognizes intended parents from conception. Pre-birth orders mean your names go straight on the birth certificate. No adoption necessary."
She pulls out sample contracts. Stacks of paper that represent possibility. "In Florida, these would be unenforceable. Here, they're your armor."
"This is the gestational carrier agreement," she says. "It lays out everything---compensation, medical decisions, parental rights. If anything goes sideways, this protects you."
Kevin lets out a low whistle. "That's... a lot."
I squeeze his hand. "We'll take it one page at a time, cariño."
Samantha nods. "Every line you sign is an act of protection. Of love. You've already proven you'll fight for your family. You left everything behind for it. This paperwork? It's making sure you never have to run again."
We leave with a folder thick enough to make your hand cramp. Kevin is quiet as we reach the car.
"I don't know," I admit. "But if I'm walking into this storm, there's no one else I'd rather have beside me. And at least here, the storm doesn't include the state government trying to erase us."
He smiles, tired but true. "Partners in all things?"
"Always," I say.
________________
The call comes that evening. We're reviewing Samantha's contracts at our dining table. Kevin's highlighting sections about medical decision-making. I'm trying to understand the surrogacy compensation structure.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number from Los Angeles area code.
"Carlos? This is Elena Vasquez from the Reproductive Justice Coalition."
I know Elena by reputation. Fierce, uncompromising. The kind of advocate who speaks truth even when it makes powerful people uncomfortable.
"What can I do for you?"
"California is considering a Reproductive Freedom Shield Law. Legislation that would protect people who help others access reproductive care across state lines." Her voice carries hope mixed with urgency. "We need people to testify about why these protections matter."
I feel Kevin's eyes on me as the pieces click together.
"They want you to testify in favor of it," Elena continues. "Your story---what Florida did to you, how you had to flee to find safety in California---it's exactly what legislators need to hear."
The irony isn't lost on me. We fled to California for safety. Now California wants to formalize that protection. Not just for us, but for everyone else who might need to make the same impossible choice.
"What would this shield law actually do?"
"It would prohibit California from cooperating with out-of-state investigations into legal reproductive care provided here. It would protect doctors, clinics, patients---and people like you who help others access care."
I look at Kevin. Still holding his highlighter. Surrounded by the legal documents that represent our future family. This law wouldn't just protect what we've already built. It would protect the infrastructure that helped us build it.
"When would this be?"
"Two weeks from now. Sacramento. You'd be testifying before the State Senate Judiciary Committee---friendly territory."
After I hang up, Kevin sets down his pen. "What was that about?"
I explain Elena's call. The shield law. The protection for people like us. The chance to build sanctuary instead of just fleeing persecution.
"So they want you to testify for protection," Kevin says slowly. "To help California formalize what it's already been doing---giving people like us a safe place to build our families."
"That's about the size of it."
He's quiet for a long moment. Looking at our scattered legal documents. All the protections Samantha explained that Florida would never offer.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
I think about Samantha's words: You've already proven you'll fight for your family.
"I'm thinking," I say slowly, "that we didn't just run to save ourselves. We ran to prove it was possible. And now we have a chance to make sure California stays a place where that's possible for others."
Kevin reaches across the table. Covers my hand with his. "It feels right."
"It does. We're not just taking from this place---we're giving back."
He nods. "When do you testify?"