I’m Sarah, and when my husband, David, invited me to his mom’s for a family talk, I expected the usual chaos. “What’s the crisis now?” I teased on the drive. “Just hear them out,” David said, eyes fixed ahead. At his mom Karen’s house, she greeted me coolly, and David’s brother, Luke, sat nervously. Karen’s sugary voice raised my guard. “We need your help,” she said. Luke shared he was engaged to a photographer, out of reach in Ethiopia’s highlands, capturing rare foxes.
Then they dropped it: Luke’s fiancée couldn’t carry a baby, and they wanted me as their surrogate. I looked at David, stunned, but his silence screamed he’d known. “It’d secure our kids’ future,” he urged. I wanted to meet the fiancée, but they said she’d return soon, with embryos ready. Pressured, I agreed, though something felt wrong. Pregnancy was grueling—sickness, aches, sleepless nights. David was kind, but Luke’s fiancée stayed absent, always “on assignment.” My doubts deepened with every unanswered question.
As labor loomed, I called Luke. “She’s photographing rare owls,” he dodged. In the hospital, contractions fierce, I sent Luke and Karen out. David left briefly, returning with a beautiful woman—Claire, his old flame, the one he’d confessed lingering feelings for. “Thank you, Sarah!” Claire smiled. I glared at David. “You hid this?” He muttered, “It wasn’t a big deal.” Karen added, “Claire wanted a child without pregnancy’s toll.” I saw it clearly: I was used to preserve Claire’s body.
“I’m just a vessel?” I raged. Claire faltered, but David dismissed me, “It’s over, relax.” Alone with him, I said, “Our marriage is done. You lied.” He scoffed, but panicked when I mentioned dividing our home and savings. I birthed alone, holding the baby once before letting her go. “Not mine,” I said. I lawyered up, filed for divorce, and won custody and assets. David pleaded, but I stood firm. “This wasn’t a mistake,” I said. A text about Claire’s baby christening went unanswered. They got their child; I got my life back, ready to thrive.
