"Hun?" My wife turns over in bed to face me. "Can you get me a glass of water?" We're both exhausted from the short-lived pool experience, and we crawled into bed as soon as Nora and Spencer were down.

"Sure, babe." I shuffle out to the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise as I open the cabinets and turn on the tap. Don't want to wake the kids.

The kids. Every decision I make has something to do with the kids.

Sometimes it's hard to remember a time when I wasn't "Spencer and Nora's Dad." Or even "Hun." I do actually have a name, even though it's hardly used. Even at work I'm "Mr. Graham".

My name is Xander.

Stupid, I know. But it was 1999 and I was eighteen. A name with an X? Awesome. I made it legal, too. Not Alexander. I knew way too many guys named Alex ... and girls named Alex. I wanted to be unquestionably male. I also wanted to be cool. The closer I get to forty, the less cool it seems. Some people get embarrassing tattoos at eighteen. I got an embarrassing name.

"Is that your real name?" a colleague will ask.

"Yes. My parents are weird," I reply. At least I never have to own up to my lack of foresight in the naming department.

My wife also has a name that never gets used by anyone. Hers is Tiffany.

She doesn't look like a Tiffany to me. Curly auburn hair and skin smeared with freckles. An Irish girl from the city with a gaggle of sisters. Mary, Katherine, Sheila, and ... Tiffany. A true child of the 80s.

We met a lifetime ago. I was new to the area. Imported from a hippie beach town several states away. I landed in the city to attend grad school and knew only one guy from back home. One person who knew me before, but didn't care. Jesse was big and loud and flamboyant and had a cute friend named Tiffany. She made fun of my faux-hawk and skinny jeans. She baked cookies and watched bootleg movies downloaded from LimeWire. She loved art, going to museums, and wanted to travel.

She was straight and saw me as a man, even though Jesse had told her.

I fell in love immediately.

"We're going to be married one day," I predicted while lounging on her brown corduroy couch, lazily caressing her thigh. We'd known each other for less than a month, but had barely left each other's side during that time.

"I know." She smiled, squeezing my hand.

And four years to the day, my vision was realized.

It was a small ceremony. No distant relatives who might fuck up my pronouns or forget my name. Tiff had never bothered telling her family about my past. My medical history was none of their concern, she said. And that was fine with me. Made things less awkward. Just meant we had to keep my second cousins off the wedding invite list. No big loss.

Except... sometimes, in the quiet moments, I feel like I lost a piece of myself along the way.

I used to attend pride marches and go to protests and volunteer with LGBT organizations. And now ... I don't.

So, maybe it makes sense that I'm "Spencer and Nora's Dad." Because that's exactly what I am. All I am.

Suddenly, there's a flash followed seconds later by a deep rumble. My mind has been drifting and water is overflowing from the glass. The sky cracks open and rain starts pounding at the windows. I put down the glass of water and turn off the tap before checking the baby monitor app. Thankfully they are both blissfully asleep and unaware of the passing storm. I sneak back down the hallway towards our bedroom. "Did you hear that thunder? Hopefully the temperature will be cooler tomorrow," I remark as I hand my wife her water.

"Yeah. Maybe we'll finally be able to take a walk or do something outside."

"That sounds nice." I can't wait to be "Spencer and Nora's Dad" out in the fresh air.