She was the kind of woman who stopped to wave at babies in grocery stores. The kind who knitted little sweaters “just in case” long before she was even married. When she and her husband Rob started trying for children, everyone assumed it would happen quickly.
Instead, they got heartbreak.
Years of treatments.
Failed procedures.
Loss after loss.
Then finally, the devastating news that carrying a pregnancy could permanently endanger Carol’s health.
I still remembered the look on her face the day she told me.
Like someone had turned all the lights off inside her.
That was why, when she asked if I’d become her surrogate, I didn’t hesitate for long.
I already had two beautiful children. My pregnancies had been healthy. And more than anything, I loved my sister.
Paul had been supportive too.
“If anyone can help Carol through this,” he’d said, “it’s you.”
So we began the process.
Doctors. Lawyers. Paperwork. Appointments.
Everything was supposed to be clear and professional.
The embryo implanted successfully on the first attempt, and Carol transformed overnight.
Hope returned to her face.
She came to every ultrasound. She painted the nursery pale blue and cream. She bought tiny stuffed animals and lined them up perfectly in the crib.
She talked to my stomach constantly.
“Your mommy already loves you so much,” she would whisper.
Every single time, tears filled her eyes.
And every single time, I felt proud that I could give her this gift.
But around the seventh month, something changed in Paul.
At first it was subtle.
He grew quieter whenever Rob came over.
Sometimes I’d catch him staring at Carol strangely when she touched my belly.
