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Miguel slides the amber liquid across polished wood like he's delivering communion, and tonight it's Rémy Martin VSOP—cognac that catches lamplight like captured sunset, swirling with caramel promise and oak-barrel memory. The scent hits before the glass stops moving: vanilla and dried apricot, hint of cinnamon that makes my sinuses warm in anticipation.
Thanks, Miguel.
Mom, you got company coming. His voice carries that smoky-tender quality, childlike warmth wrapped in masculine authority. Some journalist lady. Della said she seems cool, but you know how that goes.
I grunt acknowledgment, let the cognac burn pleasure down my throat. Local news called last month wanting to discuss "the trans mom phenomenon" like I'm some fucking sociological specimen requiring academic dissection. Told them to fuck directly off. But Della vetted this one personally, which means something. Della's bullshit detector operates with CIA-level precision.
The basement thrums with mid-week energy—Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” bleeding through speakers while Ezra claims their beanbag throne, blue hair electric under warm lighting. Phoenix and River occupy corner booth, River still in forest-green scrubs from hospital shift, Phoenix's purple-and-gold hair catching light like lightning frozen in silk. Renee dominates pool table, muscles coiling as she lines up shots with mechanical precision. Bubba fills his usual sentinel position near windows, mountain of southern survival and measured wisdom. Remy's cigarette dangles from lips near back door, exhaling philosophy with smoke.
Sarah hunches over philosophy text in opposite corner, flannel pressed military-sharp, boots making authoritative statements against concrete. She glances up when basement door opens, stoic expression shifting into something resembling interest—which for Sarah qualifies as enthusiasm.
The woman who descends stairs carries notebook and recording device, but her energy reads different from typical journalistic vultures. Thirty-something, comfortable in her skin, laugh lines already forming around eyes that suggest joy comes naturally and often. She scans the basement like anthropologist cataloging beloved ecosystem, not reporter hunting exploitation angles.
Wendy? Her voice carries warmth that doesn't require performance. I'm Erin. Thanks for agreeing to talk with me.
Della vouched for you, so we're good. I gesture toward empty stool. What're you drinking?
Whatever you're having looks perfect.
Miguel pours another cognac without asking, slides it across bar with practiced grace. Erin catches it, inhales the aroma, and her face transforms with genuine appreciation.
Oh, that's gorgeous. Okay, so— She laughs, nervous energy bubbling through professionalism. I read about you in the Gazette. That piece about local LGBTQ+ resources? Your name kept coming up. People call you Mom, apparently.
Yeah. The cognac burns smooth. Not my choice, really. It just happened.
But you don't correct them.
Sharp. The question lands precisely where it should, opening conversation instead of closing it. She sets recording device on bar between us, meets my eyes directly.
Can we start with how this became your thing? Being the queer community mom?
Across the room, Ezra perks up from beanbag throne. Oh shit, Mom's getting interviewed! This is gonna be good!
Erin laughs—full-body commitment to joy that makes her shoulders shake. That's amazing. Do they always call you that?
Every single one of them, Della calls from kitchen, where something sizzles with aggressive love. Drives her fucking crazy, but she loves it.
I tolerate it, I correct, but Erin's already grinning because she heard the truth underneath the words.
T’pau’s “Heart and Soul" replaces Queen, and I let the music fill space while organizing thoughts. Erin waits without pressure, sipping cognac and watching basement dynamics like she's absorbing entire ecosystem through observation.
I came out in 2019, I finally say. Lost a shit-ton, nearly lost my daughter, definitely lost others. The bar became refuge. Miguel and Della created space where existing didn't require explanation or justification. People started showing up—kids mostly, at first. Kicked out, rejected, surviving on anger and determination. They needed something, and I had proximity to maternal energy without the biological authority to fuck them up properly.
Erin laughs again, pen scratching across notebook. That's probably the most honest explanation of chosen family dynamics I've ever heard. So it wasn't intentional—you just became the person they needed?
More like I stopped pretending I wasn't.
Can I ask about your kids? Your biological ones?
The cognac suddenly tastes like grief. Three of them. Gizmo's the oldest—Ylse, technically, but she's always been Gizmo. Eighteen now, studying psychology at university hours away, navigating campus trans issues while I watch helplessly from distance. We used to sing in the car together. Queen, Pink Floyd, Def Leppard. Her voice could make angels weep. The T’Pau song bleeding through speakers hits different now, memory of tiny human with enormous voice belting lyrics from passenger seat.
And the others?
Alex is twenty, logical and analytical genius. Processes world through reason, trying to make sense of senseless hatred using frameworks that should work but never quite do. I take another pull of cognac, let it burn away the tightness building behind sternum. Then there's Charlie. Seventeen, genderfluid, excited about literally everything. Says funny shit constantly, this verbal enthusiasm that accompanies their entire existence. Growing up with trans parents and genderfluid sibling, experiencing firsthand what it means to have family that accepts without demanding conformity.
Erin's pen scratches across paper, but her eyes stay locked on mine with something approaching understanding. How do they handle it? Your kids, I mean. Having their parents become community resource?
Alex understands intellectually but struggles emotionally—wants to fix problems that don't have logical solutions. Charlie thinks it's amazing, wants to help everyone, hasn't learned yet that you can't save people who don't want saving. Gizmo... The word catches in throat like fishhook. Gizmo's processing her own shit at university. She knows what I do here, but we're not close enough anymore for her to have opinions about it she shares with me.
That must be incredibly hard.
It's fucking torture, I admit, because Erin's face shows she understands difference between sympathy and solidarity. But you don't get to choose when kids forgive you for destroying their understanding of family structure. You just have to hope they eventually understand you were dying inside the lie, and transition wasn't choice—it was survival.
Phoenix lifts their head from River's shoulder, purple-gold hair catching light. Mom literally saved my life. My parents kicked me out. I was sleeping in alleys when she found me. Mom saved me. Hell, I got beat up within an inch of my life months back. Mom was there. Everyone else too.
Erin turns, recording device suddenly forgotten as human interest overtakes journalistic distance. Can you tell me about that?
River speaks instead, nurse-precision cutting through emotional chaos. We found Phoenix beaten half-dead behind dumpsters. Punks decided being non-binary qualified as beatup and kill worthy.
Jesus. Erin's laugh died completely, replaced by something harder. And your parents just—what, kicked you out and expected you to what? Stop existing?
Pretty much. Phoenix's voice carries street-rough survival. Mom gave me place to stay, like it was obvious that's what you do when family needs space. River gave me this. They hold up hand, ruby ring catching light. Promise we're permanent.
Erin's pen scratches furiously, but her eyes stay locked on Phoenix. How old are you?
Twenty-two.
Your parents kicked out a twenty-two-year-old and somehow thought that was acceptable parenting?
Welcome to queer existence, Renee rumbles from pool table, lining up another shot. Her biceps strain against tank top as she drives cue through ball with violence that speaks volumes. Some parents think DNA grants ownership rights over kids' souls.
Erin laughs again, but it carries edge now—recognition of absurdity that becomes tragedy. She turns back to me, cognac glass empty. Miguel refills without asking.
So you're housing kids who get rejected. What else?
Whatever they need. Sometimes it's just listening. Sometimes it's helping them find resources—housing, therapy, legal support. Sometimes it's teaching them they're not obligated to forgive people who hurt them just because society demands familial reconciliation.
That last one probably makes you controversial.
Constantly. People think chosen family means temporary until biological family gets their shit together. I think chosen family means permanent regardless of whether blood relatives ever evolve past their bigotry.
Sarah speaks from philosophy corner, voice carrying blunt authority. The idea that family requires DNA is relatively modern Western construct. Most human cultures throughout history understood that family meant people who showed up consistently, not people who happened to share genetic material.
Erin swivels toward Sarah like compass finding north. That's fascinating. Are you saying the nuclear family model is actually historically anomalous?
Exactly. Sarah closes her book, full attention landing on Erin with weight suggesting she recognized kindred spirit. Extended family networks, communal child-rearing, chosen kinship bonds—these were default throughout most human existence. Industrial revolution and capitalism required isolated nuclear families to maintain labor mobility, so we pretended this new model was traditional. It wasn't. It was economically expedient.
Holy shit. Erin's pen flies across pages. Can I quote you on that?
Fuck yeah. Sarah almost smiles, which for her qualifies as enthusiastic endorsement.
Bubba's deep voice rumbles from his window position, carrying decades of southern survival. Growing up Black and gay in Georgia during seventies and eighties, nuclear family would've killed me. Biological family kicked me out at sixteen. Found new family in Atlanta—drag queens, street kids, hustlers, artists. They taught me how to survive when world wanted me dead. That's family. Not people who contributed genetic material then used it as weapon.
Erin turns toward him, and I watch her journalist brain catalog the mountain of muscle and memory that is Bubba—person of color, gay man, deep South survivor whose mere existence defies every statistic that should have buried him.
How old are you now? she asks.
Old enough to know better, young enough to keep fighting. His face cracks into rare smile. Family's whoever shows up when you're bleeding. Whoever holds pressure on wounds without asking what you did to deserve them.
Remy exhales smoke, French-Cajun accent thick as mama's gumbo. Mon Dieu, that's poetry right there. My mama, she taught me—family is who feeds you when you're hungry, not who you eat with at holidays. Big difference, cher.
Erin laughs again, and the sound fills basement like benediction. She's loosening, I notice—professional distance dissolving into genuine engagement. The recording device still runs but she's stopped checking it, stopped performing journalism and started participating in conversation.
Can I ask something personal? She directs this at me, but includes entire room with eye contact. How do you all deal with the constant rejection? The legislation, the violence, the families who treat you like you're broken or dangerous?
Ezra bounces from beanbag, piercings glinting like armor pieces. We find each other. We create spaces like this— They gesture around basement sanctuary. —where existing doesn't require defending ourselves constantly. Where we can just be without performing acceptability for people who want us dead anyway.
And anger, Della adds from kitchen, emerging with plates of bacon mac and cheese that smell like heaven looks. Lots of productive rage channeled into food and activism and refusing to fucking disappear just because they wish we would.
Miguel laughs, pouring whiskey for Remy who appeared at bar without summoning. My wife, the philosopher. She's not wrong though. Anger's fuel. Self-pity's quicksand.
You two are married? Erin's pen hovers over notebook. Trans man and lesbian?
Fifteen years. Della sets plates down with authority. Met before his transition, stayed together through it, figured out what love looks like when gender shifts under relationship's foundation. Turns out love's more flexible than society pretends.
Renee appears suddenly beside Erin, pool cue held like staff of office. Her presence fills space with muscle and unfulfilled longing, and I watch her eyes catalog Erin's laugh lines, the way cognac glass rests in capable hands.
You play pool? Renee's voice carries casual interest that isn't casual at all.
Erin glances up, meeting Renee's gaze directly without flinching. Terribly. But I'm willing to learn if you're willing to teach.
Oh, I'm an excellent teacher. Renee's smile suggests teaching pool is definitely not the only subject under discussion. Very patient, very hands-on.
I bet you are. Erin laughs again, and something shifts in her expression—recognition maybe, or possibility. After we finish here? I should probably get Wendy's full story before I get distracted by extracurriculars.
Renee backs off with warrior's grace, acknowledging boundary without retreating completely. She returns to pool table but positions herself where Erin can watch her play, every shot performed with precision that borders on performance.
She's subtle, Erin observes, grinning into cognac.
Renee doesn't do subtle, I correct. She does interested and not-interested. You got the interested treatment. We will see how the fuck that goes.
Yeah? Erin's expression suggests she's not opposed to this development. Good to know.
The conversation flows easier now, Erin asking questions that demonstrate actual research and genuine curiosity. She asks about my transition, my ex-wife Mary sitting quietly beside Keira at corner table, the nineteen-year rift with my sister Ginny we're slowly rebuilding. She asks about John, about the assault that nearly killed me, about Officer Washington who showed up understanding exactly what was needed.
Phoenix interjects with stories about finding chosen family after biological family's rejection. River discusses nursing trans patients, witnessing healthcare discrimination firsthand. Ezra talks about art as survival, about creating beauty from trauma. Bubba shares southern survival strategies involving strategic invisibility and explosive authenticity depending on circumstance. Remy punctuates everything with French-Cajun wisdom and cigarette smoke.
Sarah contributes philosophical framework, explaining how Foucault's theories on power and marginalization apply directly to LGBTQ+ existence. Erin engages her with questions that demonstrate she's actually read Foucault, not just heard him referenced, and I watch Sarah's stoic expression shift toward something approaching animated interest.
The basement transforms from interview location into community gathering, Erin's presence catalyzing conversations that teach her more than any prepared questions could. She witnesses the ecosystem—how we orbit each other, how conflicts resolve through combination of aggressive honesty and unconditional acceptance, how laughter and profanity and chosen family create sanctuary from world trying to erase us.
Nick’s “Landslide" bleeds through speakers, and I have to breathe through another chest-tightness. Gizmo loved this one too.
Erin doesn't write this down. She just nods, understanding some memories are too sacred for publication.
Two hours dissolve into three, cognac transforming into bourbon transforming into aged scotch Miguel produces from secret stash reserved for significant occasions. Della emerges with blackened catfish that makes Erin actually moan with pleasure, declaring it the best thing she's eaten in months. Remy shares cigarette with her during break, which—for Remy—constitutes official acceptance into chosen family.
By the time Erin finally stops recording, the basement feels different. She's not observer anymore; she's participant. Phoenix invited her to Thursday night drag show. River offered medical resources for article. Ezra showed her art portfolio. Bubba told her about Atlanta in the eighties, when being gay and Black meant navigating dual death sentences with nothing but community and defiance.
Renee reappears as Erin packs her equipment, pool cue still serving as staff of office. So, about that lesson...
Thursday night? Erin suggests, and something in her tone makes clear she understood exactly what kind of lesson Renee's offering. After the drag show Phoenix mentioned?
Perfect. Renee's smile could melt glaciers. I'll buy you a drink first. Get you warmed up.
I think you've got that backwards, Erin counters, laughing. Pretty sure the drink comes after physical activity to cool down.
Depends on the activity.
Jesus Christ, Della calls from kitchen. Get a fucking room will ya?
Thursday night, Renee confirms, backing toward pool table with warrior's grace that makes retreat look like strategic repositioning.
Erin turns to me, notebook tucked under arm, cognac-warm and laughing. Thank you. This was— She pauses, searching for words that capture whatever just happened. —this was really special. I came here thinking I'd interview you about being trans mom to rejected queer kids. But this is bigger than that, isn't it? This is about creating entire alternative family structure because the default one fails so many people.
Yeah. The scotch burns smooth, final offering before night ends. That's exactly what it is.
Can I come back? Not for the article—I mean, yes, I'll probably need follow-up questions—but just to come back?
Sarah speaks from philosophy corner, voice carrying uncharacteristic warmth. You should. Bring your curiosity and your laugh. We could use both.
Coming from Sarah, that constitutes enthusiastic invitation. Erin recognizes this, nods seriously despite grin threatening to crack her face open.
Thursday nights, then. It's a date. Well, not a date-date, unless Renee has her way— She laughs again, full-body commitment to joy that makes the basement feel lighter. —but definitely an appointment. A standing appointment.
See you Thursday, Erin. Miguel raises glass in salute. Welcome to the family.
She climbs stairs toward street level, and I watch chosen family track her departure with expressions ranging from Renee's predatory interest to Sarah's philosophical approval to Phoenix's genuine excitement about new friend. The basement settles back into familiar rhythm—Queen replaced by The Cult, conversation flowing around absence like water around stones.
Keira's voice cuts through noise with surgical precision. She'll be back.
Yeah, I agree, finishing scotch that tastes like acceptance and possibility. She will.
Miguel collects empty glasses, wedding ring catching light as he works. That one's already chosen family. She just doesn't know it yet.
She knows, Della corrects from kitchen. She figured it out around hour two, right when Bubba started talking about Atlanta. You could see it click—oh, these are my people. I've been looking for these people.
Renee returns to pool table, muscles coiling as she destroys imaginary opponents with precision that borders on violence. Thursday night can't come fast enough.
Down, girl, I call across basement. Let the woman breathe.
She was breathing just fine when she looked at me. Renee's grin suggests she knows exactly what she saw reflected back. Besides, I'm excellent at teaching breathing techniques.
The basement erupts with laughter—knowing, supportive, slightly crude in the way chosen family allows. Erin's absence already feels temporary rather than permanent, her return inevitable rather than hopeful.
Phoenix and River kiss goodnight before River heads home for sleep before next hospital shift. Ezra sprawls across beanbag throne, blue hair electric under warm lighting, scrolling through phone with intensity of someone monitoring world's constant attempt to erase them. Bubba maintains sentinel position, mountain of survival guarding chosen family through simple presence. Remy's cigarette dangles near back door, exhaling philosophy into night air.
Sarah returns to her book, but I notice she's smiling—slight upward curve suggesting she found Erin's questions engaging, her presence pleasant, her potential membership in chosen family acceptable. From Sarah, this constitutes ringing endorsement.
Miguel pours final round, amber liquid catching lamplight like captured sunset. The cognac he started with, returning for ceremony of closure. I accept it, let the scent—vanilla, apricot, cinnamon—remind me that sometimes strangers become family between one drink and another, between one conversation and revelation that you've been looking for each other without knowing it.The cognac burns perfect, smooth fire transforming into warmth that settles in chest beside grief and hope and exhaustion. Another day survived, another person found, another piece of chosen family clicked into place like constellation completing itself across basement ceiling.
Thursday night can't come fast enough.
"We are not created equal. We become equal as members of a group on the strength of our decision to guarantee ourselves mutually equal rights." — Hannah Arendt
Erin arrived seeking interview subject but discovered chosen family instead—the distinction between observer and participant dissolving through combination of cognac, conversation, and recognition that belonging isn't achievement requiring performance but decision requiring participation. She witnessed our collective choice to guarantee each other equal rights, equal space, equal humanity regardless of what world outside basement sanctuary demanded. Thursday night she'll return not as journalist documenting queer community but as member participating in it, understanding viscerally that we become equal through showing up consistently, through choosing each other deliberately, through guaranteeing ourselves the rights society withholds. Between Renee's interested attention, Sarah's philosophical approval, Miguel's welcoming pour, and chosen family's collective embrace, Erin learned that sometimes the deepest stories require stopping recording and starting belonging.
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