I’m Lauren, and when my husband, Tom, asked me to join a family meeting at his mom’s, I sighed. His family loved stirring trouble. “What’s it now?” I asked, driving over. “Just listen, Lauren,” Tom said, tense. At his mom Susan’s house, her stiff embrace and Tom’s brother, Ryan, shifting uncomfortably, set me on edge. Susan’s overly warm tone warned me. “We have a special request,” she said. Ryan announced his engagement to a wildlife photographer, unreachable in Ethiopia, filming rare hyenas.
Then they hit me with it: Ryan’s fiancée couldn’t carry a baby, and they wanted me to be their surrogate. I turned to Tom, expecting surprise, but he’d known. “It’ll fund our kids’ education,” he pressed. I insisted on meeting the fiancée, but they claimed she’d return soon, embryos prepped. Cornered, I agreed, unease gnawing at me. Pregnancy was rough—nausea, swollen legs, constant pain. Tom was supportive, but the fiancée never contacted me, always “traveling.” My suspicions grew with each vague excuse.
Nearing delivery, I questioned Ryan. “She’s chasing rare bats,” he said. In labor, pain overwhelming, I barred Ryan and Susan from the room. Tom stepped out, returning with a striking woman—Megan, his high school love, who he’d admitted he never forgot. “Thank you, Lauren!” Megan gushed. I faced Tom, livid. “You knew?” He shrugged, “It didn’t matter.” Susan added, “Megan wanted a baby without the physical strain.” I realized I’d been used for their convenience.
“A breeding tool?” I snapped. Megan looked ashamed, but Tom sighed, “Don’t overreact.” Alone, I told him, “We’re finished. You betrayed me.” He laughed, but paled at divorce talk, our house and savings at stake. I labored alone, briefly holding the baby before giving her up. “Not mine,” I said. I hired a lawyer, filed for divorce, and secured custody and assets. Tom’s apologies didn’t sway me. “This was no accident,” I said. A text about Megan’s baby christening got deleted. They got their family; I got my independence, ready to rebuild.
