The Surrogate’s Secret
My steps dragged as I left the ultrasound room.
Four months. My belly pressed hard against me, every step pulling at my spine. I braced my hands on my hips, afraid I might snap in two. Sweat gathered on my forehead.
“Four months already…” My palm rested on the swell, fingers brushing it gently. “Four more months… then the money… then it ends.”
Ends. The word felt like a pit opening under me. I hated this weight, hated the child inside me, hated myself for agreeing to carry what wasn’t mine.
The father? I didn’t know. Each night in my rented room on the edge of town, shame gnawed at me until I wished I could vanish.
The memory came without mercy: that day in the office, the contract on the table, the pen heavy in my shaking hand. The company man gave me papers, money, rules. No faces, no names. Just numbers.
I signed anyway. “Alright… I agree.” My voice was so small I barely heard it. For my family, for the debt. I never asked who the father was. I never would know.
“Pregnant patient, Clara Dawson!”
The voice jolted me back. I pulled my coat tighter and hurried forward. “Y-yes… that’s me.”
I didn’t see the man until I collided with him. Pain shot across my lower belly. My knees nearly gave out.
“Oh God—”
A hand caught me, steady and firm. Heat brushed the side of my face.
“Be careful.”
The voice froze me.
I looked up. Gray-blue eyes. That face I once thought I couldn’t live without.
“Andrew…”
The name slipped out. Memories rushed in—rain, his smile, his arms around me. And just as quickly, they were gone. His gaze now was stone.
He frowned, silent for a beat, then his mouth curved into something sharp.
“Well. Clara Dawson. I thought you’d disappeared.”
My hand clutched my belly, words caught in my throat.
His eyes dropped to the swell beneath my coat. Contempt flickered.
“So. Married. And pregnant.”
“Andrew, I—”
“Don’t.” His voice sliced. “Keep what dignity you still have.”
He let go and turned away.
I stood there, barely breathing, pain twisting through me. At the end of the hall, a woman waited. Silk dress. Her belly rounded like mine. She smiled when he reached her. He touched her back, took her hand. Natural. Intimate.
Something in my chest splintered.
“Ms. Dawson?”
The nurse’s voice made me jump. I staggered to the desk, took the envelope she held out.
“Mother and baby are healthy, but you’ll need monitoring. Please keep your appointments.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. My hand shook as I gripped the envelope.
I didn’t open it. I walked straight out.
Outside, the city blared with horns and voices. I felt small, swallowed by the dusk.
In the taxi, I pressed my forehead to the window. Streets blurred past. I felt no part of them, no part of anything I once knew. Fear, anger, longing, shame—all tangled inside.
Back in my room, I sank to the floor, clutching my stomach. “Three years… and he hasn’t changed. Only colder.”
The envelope trembled in my hands. Not from the test results, not from the ache in my back—because of his eyes. The way he’d looked at me. As if I were nothing.
My heart ached. Memories came crashing back.
Three years ago. He’d just finished a brutal surgery. I sat at his bedside, watching him sleep. His face pale, but still beautiful. I wanted to hold him. Instead, I whispered through my tears, “Andrew… we should stop.”
He stirred, confused. “Clara… don’t joke. Not now…” He forced a weak smile and reached for me. I pulled away, tears running hot. I couldn’t tell him why. Couldn’t explain the fear that had been with me from the start.
I walked out that night, leaving him in the harsh white light, the smell of antiseptic clinging to me. Our paths split there.
Now, years later, his cold stare cut deeper than a scalpel. Sweet memories turned to shards. Regret, emptiness, grief—all pulsed with every beat of my heart, every contraction of the life inside me.
