I always knew James’s family was a mess—a walking, talking soap opera where everyone thought they were the star. But I never imagined I’d end up cast as the tragic lead in their most deranged plot twist yet.
It began with an ominous “family meeting” at Diane’s house—James’s mother. The kind of gathering that always came with passive-aggressive hors d'oeuvres and barely veiled criticism. I sighed as we drove over, already regretting the RSVP.
“What’s the crisis this time?” I muttered. “Did Diane lose her heirloom pearls and decide I sold them on eBay?”
James didn’t laugh. His grip on the wheel tightened. “It’s important. Just… go in with an open mind.”
Translation: brace yourself.
We walked into the house, and Diane greeted me with a brittle smile and one of those hugs that felt more like a TSA pat-down. Matt, James’s younger brother, sat nervously on the edge of an armchair, looking like he was 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 gaze. I could already feel the trap closing.
“I’m engaged,” Matt blurted out.
“Oh! Congratulations!” I said, forcing a smile. “When do we meet her?”
They exchanged glances. That was red flag number one.
“She’s a wildlife photographer,” Matt said. “In Ethiopia. Cell service is… spotty.”
Right.
“She can’t have children,” Diane added quickly. “Medical reasons. Which brings us to you.”
The air shifted. The punchline hit.
“You want me to be a surrogate?”
James squeezed my hand. “It would mean so much to Matt. And the compensation could really help us—Lily’s tuition, the kitchen reno…”
“And she’s okay with this?” I asked, bewildered. “Shouldn’t she be asking me?”
“She’s thrilled,” Matt said. “We’ve already got embryos frozen. We just need someone we trust.”
Every part of me wanted to scream “no.” But I was surrounded by expectant faces, a perfectly choreographed guilt trap.
So I nodded.
“I’ll do it.”
And with that, I handed over my body—and my peace—to people who had no idea what it meant to respect either.
The pregnancy was hell. Nausea, back pain, nights where I cried myself to sleep. Matt would stop by now and then, offering half-hearted thank-yous, but his fiancée? She never once reached out. No calls. No emails. Not even a text.
“Has she ever tried to contact me?” I asked James one night.
“She’s in the mountains,” he said with a shrug. “Just focus on staying calm—for the baby.”
Not for me. Never for me.
By month seven, my instincts were on high alert. Something was off. The story didn’t track. Every time I pushed for more information, Matt fed me vague nonsense about a rare bird she was photographing in Nechisar.
Then came the delivery. Intense. Painful. Chaotic.
And in the middle of my contractions, James stepped out with a buzzing phone, muttering, “She’s here.”
I thought I misheard him.
But then he returned—with her.
Rachel.
His ex.
The woman I had once banned from our conversations after catching James deep in her Instagram DMs six years ago.
Rachel beamed at me like we were old friends. “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 manipulated me into carrying your ex’s child.”
Diane stepped in like she was hosting a baby shower. “You were just the perfect candidate. Healthy. Experienced. Rachel didn’t want to risk her figure—”
“I’m not a damn incubator!”
Rachel stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
“Silence.”
I powered through the rest of labor fueled by fury. Hours later, when they placed the baby in my arms, I held them just long enough to say goodbye.
“This isn’t my child.”
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.