The living room is quiet.
Just the soft hum of the AC and the distant sound of our neighbor's television bleeding through the thin walls of this rental that still doesn't feel like home.
The slow tick of the clock on the wall marking time we can't get back.
Kevin and I sit at opposite ends of the couch.
Close, but not quite together.
The kind of distance that isn't physical but feels like an ocean between two islands that used to be connected.
Been a week since we chose Donor 1092.
Cuban-American, smart, steady.
Felt like the right call then.
Now it's time for the next choice.
The one we've both been circling like vultures, afraid to land.
"So," I say, careful not to sound too loud in the stillness, "we need to decide whose sperm we're using."
Kevin nods.
Doesn't meet my eyes.
"Yeah. We do."
I sit with it a second, feeling the weight of what we're really deciding.
Not just biology but belonging.
Who gets to see themselves reflected back.
Then say, "If we use mine... our kid would have a strong link to my side. Donor 1092 already shares my background. There's a good chance the baby would look a lot like me."
Kevin shifts in his seat.
Arms crossed tight over his chest like he's protecting himself from something.
"That's... actually what I wanted to talk to you about."
He hesitates.
Picks his words like he's defusing a bomb that could blow up everything we've built.
"I was thinking maybe we should use mine. To, you know... balance things out."
I blink.
That word sits between us like my grandmother's old scale, the one she used to weigh rice and beans, always trying to make things even.
Balance.
"Balance things out?" My voice comes sharper than I mean it to. "What exactly are we balancing?"
Kevin's hands go up.
Bracing for impact like he knows this conversation could go sideways fast.
"That's not what I meant. I just... if we use your sperm, and the donor already resembles your family, then... I don't know, I might feel left out. Like the kid won't look like me at all. Or like my family won't see themselves in them."
He runs a hand through his hair.
Frustrated with himself, with me, with this whole impossible situation.
"I hate how much I'm thinking about my parents. I wish I could just shut it off. But they're trying so hard to be supportive, and I know they're struggling. I guess part of me is trying to make it easier on them. On us."
I sit forward.
Tension hitting my spine like lightning before thunder.
"So if the baby looks 'too Hispanic,' that's going to be a problem?"
His eyes go wide like I've slapped him.
"No! Carlos, no. That's not what I'm saying."
I'm already on my feet.
Pacing like a caged animal, like my father used to do when he was angry, wearing grooves in the floor with his worry.
"Then what are you saying? Because that's how it sounds."
"I'm saying... I want to feel part of this, too. Genetically. I want there to be a chance that when I look at our kid, I see some of myself in them. That doesn't mean I don't love your culture or want it to be part of our family."
"And what about me?" I shoot back, my voice rising like steam from my grandmother's pressure cooker when it's about to blow.
"I've spent my whole life trying to see myself in other people's stories. I finally get the chance to have a child that shares something real with me, and now I'm supposed to step aside?"
Kevin doesn't respond right away.
Just stares at the floor like the answers might be written in the cheap carpet we didn't choose.
"I'm sorry," he says finally.
Voice low like he's confessing something shameful.
"I didn't realize how deep this ran for you. I wasn't trying to take anything away. I just... I didn't know how to say it."
I breathe in slow, the way my grandmother taught me when I was little and the world felt too big.
Respira, mijo. The air is free.
Let it go.
Sit back down.
My heart's still pounding like drums at a festival I'll never attend again.
But my anger's already cooling into something heavier.
Sadder.
Like the weight of all the conversations we should have had but didn't.
"This decision isn't about appearances," I say. "It's about us. Our kid. Our family. We can't let fear—ours or anyone else's—drive this."
In Florida, this conversation would have been academic.
A luxury we couldn't afford.
We wouldn't have been allowed to have it.
Here, at least, we get to fight about choices that are actually ours to make, even when those choices tear us apart.
Kevin nods slowly.
"You're right. Maybe... maybe we do what Dr. Ramirez suggested. We mix our samples. Fifty-fifty. Let the science do the choosing."
"And test the embryos," I add. "So we know whose is whose. If we want to."
"Right," he says.
Reaching for my hand across the space that feels smaller now, more manageable.
I let my fingers wrap around his.
Some of the weight lifts.
Just enough to breathe without feeling like I'm drowning.
"We've still got some talking to do," I say. "But I'm glad we're talking."
He nods again.
"Me too."
This choice is about more than DNA.
It's about connection.
Belonging.
How we start writing the story of our family in a place where that story is allowed to exist.
We sit together.
The silence now something softer.
More forgiving.
Like the quiet after my grandmother finished her novenas, when the house felt blessed and safe.
Later that night, I look at Kevin and ask, "So... what do you think we should do?"
He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands like they hold secrets.
Then: "I still think we should use mine."
I look at him.
Really look at him.
See the vulnerability there naked as truth.
The fear of being left out of his own child's story.
The weight of wanting his parents to see themselves in this baby we're trying so hard to create.
The need to feel connected to this miracle we're building from scratch in a state that doesn't know our names.
"Okay," I say finally.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." I take his hand like I'm making a promise.
"You're right. We chose Donor 1092 partly because she shares my background. If we use your sperm too... maybe that balances things. Maybe our kid gets the best of both worlds—your calm and my fire, your patience and my stubbornness."
Kevin's eyes search mine like he's looking for the catch, the hidden anger.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. Besides, genetics isn't the only way to be a father. I'll be there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every moment that matters. That's how I'll see myself in them. That's how they'll know I'm theirs."
I pause, feeling something settle in my chest like dust after a storm.
"And who knows? Maybe our kid will have your calm and my stubborn streak. God help us all."
He laughs.
First real laugh I've heard in days, bright as sunlight through the window of this temporary home.
"So we're doing this?" he asks.
"We're doing this."
Outside, California hums along.
Indifferent to our small decision.
Inside, we're one step closer to the family we came here to build.
The one worth leaving everything behind for.
The one worth starting over for in a place where starting over is still possible.