Chapter 37. Joy, Jitters, and Jurisdiction

“May 31st,” Marina said over the phone. “That’s when I’ll be induced.”

She had just left her latest appointment. At twenty-eight weeks, Jaidan was measuring fifteen inches—now the size of a head of romaine—and his pulse was 140 beats per minute.

“Induced?” I asked. “Why? Is there a problem if we let things run their course?”

“Not really,” she said. “Dr. Dawson says everything looks great, but since I’m thirty-five years old and this is my second pregnancy, she doesn’t want Jaidan to go beyond thirty-nine weeks if possible.”

“Since you’re thirty-five?” Jaime asked.

“Yeah,” Marina said. “Apparently I’m a few weeks into what they call a geriatric pregnancy.”

“Geriatric. At thirty-five,” I said. “Rude.”

“I know,” she said, laughing.

“Okay,” I said, pulling up the calendar app on my phone. “So that’s only about a week earlier than we expected.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s not too bad. How do you feel about it?”

“Honestly, it’s perfectly fine,” Marina said. “She said induced labor can be longer than natural birth, but there’s no real risk for me or the baby.”

“That’s good,” Jaime said.

“I’ll start seeing her every two weeks now to monitor him, and then every week in the last month.”

I let that sink in. The schedule, the timing—how close it all suddenly felt. I remembered when we took our first selfie to send to Marina, a blueberry resting in my open palm, everything about it feeling impossibly small and fragile. It didn’t feel that long ago. And yet, here we were—eleven weeks to go.

“It’s starting to feel real,” I said. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

“I know,” she said. “Get ready, boys.”

A small beat.

“You’re going to be parents!”

When the call ended, we stayed there for a second, phones still in our hands, as if the line hadn’t quite disconnected yet. Then we looked at each other—the same stunned smile spreading across both our faces.

“We’re going to be parents,” I said again, pulling Jaime into a hug that held excitement and fear in equal measure.

That feeling stayed with me over the next few days—following me out into the city as winter finally began to loosen its grip on New York. The light had changed—softer somehow—and in the mornings, birds were louder than the river for the first time in months, carrying up from Gantry Park below our window. Small buds had begun to appear on the trees, tentative but persistent.

But just as the city was beginning to regain its color, I found myself looking at everything with a quiet sense of distance, as if we were already on our way out of this version of our life.

I started noticing the small things that would soon disappear. Fridays after work, when we’d head to Fourteenth Street for a cocktail. Weeknights when we’d walk to the ferry instead of taking the train, because getting home an hour later didn’t matter. Quiet Sunday mornings—coffee, writing, Jaime still asleep down the hall, the apartment sunlit, the day wide open.

All of it was already drifting into the category of what we used to do before we became parents.

And with that came a growing awareness of the world we were about to enter—one where we would be the exception to the rule, the outliers.

I had already caught glimpses of it. A daycare application form that asked for the “mother’s name,” the cursor blinking in the empty field, waiting for an answer that didn’t quite exist. Baby stores where sales associates’ eyes would flick past us, searching for someone who wasn’t there. Policies written with a version of family in mind that didn’t include us.

And I was starting to realize that this was only the beginning. It would follow us into playgrounds and parent-teacher conferences, pediatrician waiting rooms and playdates—each space organized around assumptions we would have to gently, repeatedly correct.

Still, the mix of nostalgia and low-grade apprehension couldn’t compete with the joy building in my chest—something I had spent years training myself to keep in check.

It showed up in small ways. Not celebrating too early. Not saying things out loud. Downplaying milestones so they couldn’t be taken away.

If you didn’t let yourself get too excited, you didn’t risk the fall. You stayed measured. Prepared.

But this time, holding back felt impossible.

It was as if Jaidan was already teaching me something before even being born: to let the joy in. To not live under the constant weight of what might go wrong. To accept that being fully alive meant risking that something could break—and choosing it anyway.

That shift showed up in unexpected places—like finally deciding to plan a baby shower.

Over the next few days, I called different venues and gathered quotes.

“These prices are insane,” I said to Jaime one night, scrolling through a proposal I had just received. “Listen to this. A minimum of six hours is required, at twelve hundred per hour. That doesn’t include food or drinks. And there’s a two-thousand-dollar minimum spend.”

“That’s New York City for you,” Jaime said.

“That’s what you pay for a wedding venue in Mexico,” I said. “And you get a full hacienda for the day. Here, it’s a back room where twelve people can stand comfortably, and fifteen can apologize to each other.”

“And don’t forget the twenty-five percent tip at the end,” Jaime said.

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I admitted.

“Maybe we just host it here,” he suggested.

“Maybe,” I said. “But then we’ll spend the whole time hosting instead of enjoying it. I’m not giving up yet. Let me keep looking.”

I liked the challenge. It felt good to focus on something I could actually control —unlike daycare, or parental leave, or the due date. Just a room, some food, and people who loved us.

I kept searching, calling, emailing—crossing places off, adding new ones—until one Thursday night, I hit jackpot.

“I found it!” I said. “The brunch place we like near Court Square has a big back room. They’ll set up tables, bring out trays, and they even have a screen so Marina can join us for a bit.”

“How much?” Jaime asked.

“It’s within budget,” I said, handing him my phone.

“Barely,” Jaime said, scanning it. Then he looked up, smiling. “But it looks great. Let’s do it.”

That weekend, we put together a guest list and sent out a save-the-date. Soon, we had a solid group coming, which made it feel suddenly real in a different way—less abstract, more like something that was actually going to happen.

A few days later, I came home from work to a couple of packages by the door.

“Jaidan got his first gifts!” I said, calling Jaime.

“Don’t open them!” he said immediately. “Wait for me!”

That night, we sat cross-legged on the floor like two kids on Christmas morning. Only instead of toys or video games, we were unboxing a diaper bag and a baby play gym—holding up each item like it was the most extraordinary thing we had ever seen, narrating features we didn’t fully understand as if we were already experts.

The following week, we got on another video call with Marina. This time, our lawyer joined us.

“As we head into the third trimester, we’ll want to make sure we file all the paperwork before the courts so we can get parentage settled,” she explained.

“So it’s time to get going on the pre-birth court order?” Jaime asked.

“Exactly,” she said. “You’re much more informed than our average intended parents!”

Jaime beamed.

“He’s cheating—he’s also a lawyer,” I said.

“Ah, that tracks,” she said. “Then I’ll try not to bore him too much.”

“He loves being bored by legal process,” I said.

Jaime nodded, completely serious. “It’s true.”

She smiled and continued. “For those of you who aren’t lawyers, a pre-birth court order is a legal decision issued by a judge that will declare both of you as the rightful parents of the child.”

“Got it,” I said. “So it’s what tells the hospital that we’re the dads.”

“Exactly. It’s also what will allow you to get a birth certificate with both of you on it, instead of Marina’s name. And it releases Marina and Preston from any parenting obligations.”

“Thank God!” Marina said, laughing. “We have our hands full with our own child!”

“So a judge has to make that decision?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but in your case, you won’t actually need to appear in court. Everything is filed electronically, and the judge reviews it on their end.”

Jaime leaned back slightly. “So… no dramatic courtroom scene?”

“Afraid not,” she said.

“Wow,” I said. “All this time I’ve been preparing my closing argument.”

“I’m sure it would’ve been very compelling,” she said.

“What about the judge?” Jaime asked. “Can they choose not to recognize our parentage?”

“At least one of you will automatically be recognized as the biological father,” she said. “The process is really about ensuring both of you are recognized equally. And Arkansas has strong legal precedent.”

“Meaning?”

“There are years of cases where judges have recognized same-sex parents in surrogacy arrangements. It won’t be unusual for them to see a case like yours. I obviously can’t guarantee anything, but I’d be surprised if a judge chose to ignore that. And even then, we could appeal. As a last resort, adoption is always an option—though you shouldn’t need it.”

The word guarantee lingered a little longer than everything else she had said, catching somewhere I couldn’t quite shake.

“Makes sense,” Jaime said.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll send documents over the next few days so we can get everything filed.”

We said our goodbyes, and the call ended.

Jaime reached for my hand.

“Look at me,” he said. “Don’t stress about this.”

“I just don’t like her saying she can’t make any guarantees,” I said. “Especially right now.”

“She’s a lawyer,” he said. “That’s what we do. We add disclaimers to everything.”

I exhaled.

“And you heard her—at least one of us will be recognized automatically.”

“I guess the unavoidable time has come to find out who that will be,” I said.

Jaime’s eyes widened slightly. He knew I was right.

When we did IVF, we had asked Dr. Sam not to tell us which embryos were genetically linked to each of us. We hadn’t wanted that to influence the decision. On the day of the transfer, she had shown Marina the name so she could confirm it belonged to one of us—but we had asked her not to share it with us.

At some point, we knew we’d have to find out. Not just for the courts, but to understand Jaidan’s medical history.

“Whoever it is, this is our child,” I said. “We’re both one hundred percent his parents.”

“One thousand percent,” Jaime said. “There isn’t a more wanted kid in the universe. We’ve spent the past four years dreaming him into existence.”

“We’ve gone through a lot,” I said. “Our babymoon is coming at the perfect time.”

Jaime nodded.

“A few days just for us.”

I looked around the apartment—except for a few stacked Amazon boxes with unpacked swaddles and onesies, there were still no signs of a baby anywhere.

“The last few days that look like this,” he said.

I nodded.

And for the first time, instead of trying to hold onto it, I let myself feel both things at once—the life we were about to leave behind, and the one already, unmistakably, on its way to meet us.