My husband was constantly visiting our surrogate mother to make sure she was okay. I hid a tape recorder, and what I heard ended our marriage.

Several weeks later, she came in with a stack of papers under her arm, her face beaming with excitement. “I’ve been researching surrogacy.”

I looked at the documents and then at him. For the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope that maybe everything would be all right.

From that moment on, Ethan took care of everything: the agency, the legal procedures, the interviews.

Finally, he introduced me to Claire. She was kind, calm, and I liked her from the first moment. She already had two children.

The contracts were formalized. The embryo transfer was a success.

Claire was pregnant.

For the first time in years, Ethan and I felt like we were a family again. Like we were finally building something together after watching our plans fall apart for so long.

At first, we visited Claire together. We brought her vitamins, shopping bags, and even a pregnancy pillow that she had spent almost forty minutes choosing online.

Claire laughed and waved goodbye. “They’re spoiling me rotten.”

But a few weeks later, Ethan started going alone.

One afternoon he kissed my forehead, picked up his keys, and said over my shoulder, “Darling, Claire told me you might be lacking vitamins. I’ll bring you some.”

“Now?” I asked. “It’ll only take an hour.”

After that, the visits became more frequent: during the workday, late at night, even on weekends.

One Saturday I was by the kitchen stirring the dinner when he came running in, already putting on his jacket.

“Honey, I’m going to check on Claire and the baby.”
“You saw her two days ago,” I said.

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