I’m 30, and for three years, Greg and I tried to have a baby. Miscarriages. Doctors. Silence. Eventually, surrogacy became the option. That’s how Lisa came into our lives — young, warm, reassuring. Contracts signed. Medical clearance completed. Everything seemed normal. Too normal. Around the eighth month, things changed. Calls went unanswered. Messages took days. Pregnancy fatigue made it easy to dismiss. Then the fabrications began. Vague excuses. Sudden requests for “advances” for medical bills. Red flags were ignored. The desire for a child was stronger than suspicion. Then a single call shattered everything. I answered and heard Lisa’s cheerful voice. “HI, SARAH. BIG UPDATE. I’M MOVING FORWARD PERMANENTLY. GREG AND I ARE TOGETHER. OH, AND THE MONEY YOU WIRED? GONE. WEDDING’S BOOKED.”
Breathing stopped. “What do you mean, spent it? That was surrogacy money.” “Yep,” she laughed. “And the baby? You’ll see.” Click. My life unraveled in an instant. Confronting Greg produced a pale, evasive response. “Sarah, I didn’t — ” “Didn’t what? Stop her from stealing my child?” I screamed. No explanation followed. The facts became clear quickly. Lisa moved to another state. Our money was used for wedding plans. She married my husband. The baby was left with them. Sleep vanished. Every moment replayed. Then one night, scrolling alone, wedding prep photos appeared. Pink flowers. White dresses. My baby in Lisa’s arms, held as if already hers. Screams stayed inside. Instead, a plan formed. An old dress was dug out. Hair styled the way Greg used to like. A flight was booked. At the wedding, a seat in the back was chosen, shaded by sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. They laughed, danced, celebrated — with my baby between them. When the speeches started, a small box was placed on the head table — my “gift.” The best man UNWRAPPED the box. Lisa’s smile wavered. Greg leaned in, curious. Then — shock. Confusion. Panic. The music STOPPED. Whispers spread through the guests like wildfire.