James’s family was a walking, talking soap opera, and I always knew it was a mess, with everyone thinking they were the main character. However, I had no idea that I would be chosen as the sad protagonist in their most bizarre story twist to date.
It started at James’s mother Diane’s residence with a foreboding “family meeting.” Passive-aggressive hors d’oeuvres and barely disguised criticism were always part of the event. As we drove over, I sighed and already regretted sending out the RSVP.
“What is this time’s crisis?” I muttered. “Did Diane lose her heirloom pearls and decide I sold them on eBay?”
James refrained from laughing. He gripped the wheel more tightly. It’s crucial. Simply in with an open mind.
In other words, get ready.
Diane gave me one of those hugs that felt more like a TSA pat-down and a brittle smile as we entered the house. Sitting tensely on the edge of an armchair, James’s younger brother Matt appeared to be about to confess to a hit-and-run.
“Jessica,” Diane purred. “We’ve gathered today because we have a special request.”
My stomach tightened. James avoided my sight. I could already feel the trap closing.
Matt blurted, “I’m engaged.”
“Oh! Congratulations!” I said, trying a smile. “When are we going to see her?”
They looked at one another. Red flag number one was that.
“She takes pictures of wildlife,” Matt explained. “In Ethiopia. The cell service is inconsistent.
Right.
“She is unable to have children,” Diane hastily added. “Medical reasons.” This leads us to you.
Something changed in the air. The joke was effective.
“You’d like me to act as a surrogate?”
My hand was squeezed by James. Matt would find it really meaningful. We might be able to use the compensation for things like the kitchen renovation and Lily’s education.
“And this is acceptable to her?” Confused, I inquired. “Isn’t it me she should be asking?”
Matt said, “She’s thrilled. We’ve already got embryos frozen. We just need someone we trust.” I wanted to say “no,” but I was surrounded by expectant faces, a perfectly staged guilt trap, so I nodded and said, “I’ll do it.” With that, I gave my body and my peace to people who didn’t understand what it meant to be respectful either. The pregnancy was hell, with back pain, nausea, and nights when I sobbed myself to sleep. Matt would occasionally drop by and give a half-hearted thank-you, but his fiancée? She never once made an effort to communicate—no calls, emails, or texts.
Has she ever attempted to get in touch with me? One evening, I asked James.
He shrugged and said, “She’s in the mountains.” “Just keep your cool—for the baby.”
Not for me. Never for me.
My instincts were on high alert by the seventh month. There was a problem. The narrative didn’t follow. Matt kept giving me vague crap about a rare bird she was photographing in Nechisar whenever I pressed for further details.
Then the delivery arrived. tense. Painful. chaotic.
James interrupted my contractions by saying, “She’s here,” while holding a buzzing phone.
I believed I had misheard him.
Then he came back—with her.
Rachel.
His former partner.
Six years ago, James caught the woman deep in her Instagram direct messages, and I banned her from our conversations.
Rachel smiled at me as if we had known each other for ages. “Jessica! Thank you! You’ve made our dream come true!”
I looked at James, stunned. “You knew.”
He didn’t flinch. “It wasn’t relevant.”
I felt something inside me snap.
You tricked me into becoming pregnant with your ex’s child.
Diane took over as if she were throwing a baby shower. “You were the ideal applicant. wholesome. knowledgeable. Rachel didn’t want to jeopardize her body—
“I’m not an incubator at all!”
Rachel stumbled. “I didn’t mean—”
“Silence.”
I powered through the rest of labor fueled by fury. When they put the baby in my arms hours later, I only held them long enough to bid them farewell.
“This child is not mine.”
I handed the baby back.
Two days later, I packed James’s belongings. I called a lawyer. I filed for divorce. I got full custody of our kids, the house, and my self-respect.
James tried to win me back with tears, flowers, late-night voicemails.
I didn’t budge.
“This wasn’t a mistake,” I told him. “You made a choice. And now, so have I.”
Three months later, I signed the final papers. My lawyer handed me a copy with a smile.
“You got everything.”
I smiled back.
“I didn’t get everything. I reclaimed what they thought I’d never notice was missing.”
Me.
Outside, the sky was clear and sharp. My phone buzzed—one last message from James.
“Rachel had the baby christened yesterday. They both say thank you.”
Delete.
Step.
Freedom.