The Mrs. Files looks at history through a contemporary lens to see what the honorific “Mrs.” means to women and their identity.

The actress Samira Wiley was on the set of “Orange Is the New Black” in December 2012 when she met Lauren Morelli, a writer on the show.

They both quickly developed feelings for each other. In 2014, Morelli came out in a first-person essay for Mic.com, writing, “I went through it all on set: I fell in love with a woman, and I watched my life play out onscreen.” Three years later, they married in Palm Springs, Calif.

Wiley, looking back on the progression, “going from girlfriend to fiancée to wife,” said in a telephone interview that “it points out the different stages and the commitment we are making to each other.” And, she added, “It’s hot! ‘This is my wife.’ I just love saying that.”

After Lauren’s father died, Wiley legally became Samira Denise Morelli to help Lauren carry on her family name. “To be able to give that gift to my partner, it seemed like the right decision on so many levels,” she said.

For Wiley and other queer women who are married — as I am — there is real power in the act of naming your relationship, and in determining how you want to be recognized in a society that has traditionally refused to see two women as anything more than friends. We are wives. (But not in a “Handmaid’s Tale” kind of way.)

As a queer woman, you’re forced to come out constantly. At family gatherings. To the hotel concierge. At the airport when you’re late for a flight. On the street when people ask if you are sisters. At a bar, when some guy is hitting on you. Some people will perform a dizzying array of mental gymnastics to avoid seeing the couple in front of them. But the fact of the matter is: There is no ambiguity with “wife.” When you say “wife,” the other person has to deal with it.

The word is staking a claim to a right we have only had for a few years. It has been long fought, and well earned.

A quick reminder: Same sex marriage has only been legal across the United States since 2015. That’s five years. It’s younger than some people’s sock collections. Since then, marriage rates for L.G.B.T.Q. couples have soared. In 2017, Gallup estimated that 61 percent of “same-sex, cohabiting couples” were married, versus 38 percent before the ruling.

That said, marriage — and the words and phrases that have historically been associated with it — is still a blurry concept for a lot of queer women. The wedding industry may have been quick to embrace “Mrs. & Mrs.” merchandise, but since “Mrs.” derives from its counterpart, “Mr.,” the word sounds retrograde to modern ears. (Versions of the question, “Do married lesbians use the title ‘Mrs.?’” have created lively discussions on Quora and Reddit. The answer is often: No.)

In my experience the word “wife” also came with a lot of baggage attached.

María and I decided when we got married in 2017 that we would avoid using “wife.” Instead, when we introduce each other, we simply say we are married. “Wife” was a term straight people used, and it brought up ideas about what a woman should be for her husband, and how she was perceived by society. The stale taste of the comedian Henny Youngman’s “take my wife, please” jokes lingered in the air. (It was countered decades later by the then-married comedians Rhea Butcher and Cameron Esposito, whose show, “Take My Wife,” ran for two seasons.)

“I think there is a desire to reclaim the word and create a new meaning and narrative, but I’d rather move on,” Stephanie Allynne, the actress and comedian, wrote in an email, when asked about the word “wife.” “I prefer the word ‘partner’ because it implies equality.” The comedian Tig Notaro, who is married to Allynne, agreed. “I started using the word spouse just a few weeks ago because something in me started to feel like wife didn’t seem to fit anymore, at least not in my marriage.”

For the rapper Snow Tha Product (Claudia Madriz), “wife” is also a loaded term. “It feels aggressive. ‘Oh, you know the wife, back at home with the kids,’” she said in a phone interview. But her fiancée, JuJu, (Julissa Aponte) embraces the term. Madriz said she doesn’t need a label to know her relationship is real. “We’re it. That’s it. She’s not going nowhere,” she said.

Nicole Dennis-Benn, a writer based in Brooklyn, decided to hyphenate her last name, in part because she was tired of answering the question of whether she and her wife were together. Her wife, Dr. Emma Benn, an associate professor at the Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai, kept her name for professional reasons.

Taking your spouse’s last name, too, can be a way to deepen the bond between queer women and their shared ideals, a sentiment the ballet dancer Sydney Magruder expressed on Instagram, writing, “She stole my heart so I’m stealing her last name!”

She now uses Washington as her surname, although she hasn’t legally changed her name yet. “It’s just such a process,” she wrote in an email. For her, “sharing a last name is also a statement not in defense of or in deference to heteronormative marriage traditions, but in support of the Christian ideals we both hold.” That spouses, she explained, “become one person in the eyes of God.”

Even before the historian Lisa Duggan critically examined “homonormativity” in 2002, the L.G.B.T.Q. community has been grappling with what marriage would mean for us. Are lesbians, queer and bisexual women just like everyone else? Do we want to just emulate the playbook for straight couples? Or are we approaching marriage differently, in ways that are shaping the world around us? These questions will take more time to answer.

For L.G.B.T. people from older generations, the word “wife” can sometimes be seen as a betrayal.

Chely Wright, a country singer, came out in 2010, becoming one of the first openly gay stars in a genre of music not traditionally known for its embrace of the L.G.B.T.Q. community. She got married a year later, but was unsure of how to refer to herself. “In our community there’s a reticence to use terminology like wife or husband or to be involved in a marriage; there’s a lot of history in that terminology,” Wright said, “when you participate in it, you somehow affirm it.”

Flying across the country revealed the need to insist on the validity of her own relationship. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on an airplane and people ask me about my husband, and I say, ‘Actually, I have a wife,’” she said. “Then they say ‘girlfriend’ and I’ll correct them. I’m going to need you to call her my wife. She’s legally my wife.”

As for me, I’m still grappling with the word. But when María was rushed to the hospital one night, I did not hesitate to say “wife” when describing our relationship to the front desk. It gave me access. It gave me power. And I’m very, very grateful for it.