When my sister asked me to be her surrogate, I said yes without hesitation. Nine months later, I watched her hold her newborn son for the first time. Then my mother took one look at the baby, dropped the flowers in her hands, and whispered, “Oh God… not again.”
My life was steady, predictable, and quiet in the way I had always wanted it to be, then the doorbell rang, and Claire walked in with red eyes.
“Sarah, can we talk?”
I poured her coffee without asking.
“The doctors said it’s final,” she whispered. “I can’t carry a baby. Not safely. Not ever.”
“Oh, Claire.”