The bus ride home smelled like old fries and desperation.

I sat by the window, hoodie pulled up, hands folded over my stomach like I could shield what was already growing inside me. The contract was signed. The die was cast. And all I could think about was how quiet my body felt—like it knew something I didn’t.

My father sat beside me, scrolling through his phone, thumbs flying. He’d texted someone the second we left the office. Probably Benny. Probably already planning how to spend my money.

He didn’t say anything for ten stops. Just tapped, scrolled, tapped. Then, out of nowhere, he put his hand on my shoulder.

Not a pat. Not a squeeze. Just… weight. Heavy. Like he was anchoring himself to me so he wouldn’t float away into whatever hole he’d dug for himself.

“You okay?” he asked, still looking at his screen.

I almost laughed. “Yeah.”

He nodded, like that settled it. Like “okay” was a place you could live.

I stared out the window. LA blurred past—strip malls, palm trees, homeless encampments under freeways. People living in tents, in cars, in the cracks between the rich world and the rest of us. I wondered if any of them had ever signed a contract to rent out their body for half a million dollars. Probably not. Probably didn’t have the “clean medical history” or the “youthful DNA” the clinic wanted.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from the clinic:

“Congratulations! Your advance of $150,000 has been wired. Please confirm receipt.”

I showed it to my father.

He read it, then grinned—real, wide, the kind of smile I hadn’t seen since I was a kid and he used to play piano at jazz clubs downtown. “Told you it was clean.”

He didn’t ask if I wanted to keep any of it. Didn’t say, “You should save some for yourself.” Just: “Let’s go to the bank.”

We got off at Wilshire, walked three blocks to Chase. He made me withdraw $120,000 in cash—“for safety,” he said. I watched him stuff it into a duffel bag like it was laundry. The teller didn’t blink. Rich people move money like water. Poor people move it like secrets.

“Gonna pay off Benny,” he said as we walked out. “Then get us a room at the Starlight. Real bed. Hot shower. You deserve it.”

I didn’t tell him I’d rather sleep in our apartment one more night. That I wanted to pack my mom’s photo, her old teacup, the blanket she knitted me when I was six. That I didn’t want to disappear into a motel where no one knew my name.

We stopped at a taco truck on the way back. He bought two carne asada burritos, a large Coke, and a pack of smokes. “On me,” he said, handing me a burrito.

I took it. Didn’t eat. Just held it, warm in my hands.

Back at the apartment, the eviction notice was still taped to the door. I peeled it off slowly, folded it into a square, and tucked it in my pocket. Souvenir.

Inside, the place smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. My bed was just a mattress on the floor. My “closet” was a plastic bin in the corner. On the nightstand: a lamp with duct tape on the cord, a half-empty bottle of prenatal vitamins I’d bought myself last week, and a photo of my mom and me at Disneyland when I was eight. Her smile was wide. Mine was missing a tooth.

My father dropped the duffel bag on the couch. “Gonna take a nap. Wake me before you go to work.”

He was snoring within minutes.

I sat on my mattress, burrito untouched, and called Lou’s Diner.

“Yeah, Remy?” It was Rosa, the night manager.

“I need to pick up extra shifts,” I said. “All of them. For the next six months.”

She paused. “You sick?”

“No. Just… saving up.”

“Alright, mija. I’ll put you down for doubles. But don’t burn out.”

I hung up. Then I opened my laptop—the one from the library, held together with rubber bands—and typed “gestational surrogacy what to expect.”

Page after page of clinical language: hormone protocols, embryo transfer, legal relinquishment, emotional detachment.

Nowhere did it say: You’ll feel heartbeats and want to name them before they’re born.

Nowhere did it say: You’ll cry in the shower because you’re scared you’ll love something you can’t keep.

Nowhere did it say: Your father will take most of the money and leave you with nothing but silence.

I closed the laptop.

My stomach fluttered—not nausea this time, but something softer. Like a wing brushing against my ribs.

I put my hand there.

You’re still there, I thought.

I didn’t know its names yet. But I knew this: I wouldn’t let anyone call it “non-viable.”

I wouldn’t let anyone erase it.

Even if the world said it wasn't mine.

Later that night, I walked to work in the dark, my burrito cold in my bag. The streets were loud—car horns, arguing couples, sirens in the distance. But inside me? Quiet. Focused.

At Lou’s, Rosa handed me an apron. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You ain’t sick, are you?” She squinted. “You look… different.”

I almost told her. Almost said, I’m carrying a child for a stranger, and my father just sold my body for cash.

But I just tied the apron and said, “Just didn’t sleep.”

The dinner rush hit hard. Orders flying, coffee spilling, customers snapping. I moved fast—refilling mugs, clearing plates, smiling when I wanted to scream.

At 11 p.m., a man sat in booth six. Late thirties, tired eyes, suit rumpled like he’d been in it all day. He ordered black coffee, no food.

I brought it. He looked up. “Thanks.”

Something in his voice—soft, worn—made me pause. “Rough day?”

He almost smiled. “You could say that.”

We didn’t talk again. But as I walked away, I thought: He’s carrying something too.

We all are.

At 2 a.m., I walked home, feet aching, back sore. The apartment was dark. My father was gone—the duffel bag too.

On the kitchen table, he’d left $500 in cash and a note:

“For you. Don’t spend it all at once. – Dad”

I stared at it. Five hundred dollars. Out of $150,000.

I picked it up. Then I tucked it into my sock drawer, next to my mom’s old hairpin.

Not because I needed it.

But because for once, he’d remembered I existed.

I lay down on my mattress, hand on my stomach, and whispered the only promise I could keep:

“I won’t let them forget you.”

Outside, the city hummed.

Inside, a heartbeat answered.