Ryan is my twin — not only my brother but my closest friend. He’d always stood by me, always shown up. He was the one who slept on my couch for a month after our parents died in a car crash five years ago, because I couldn’t bear being alone in my apartment.
He and his wife, Melissa, had spent six years trying to have a baby. Two rounds of IVF. One miscarriage at 11 weeks that I don’t think my sister-in-law ever truly recovered from.
He’d always stood by me.
So when they sat me down at their kitchen table last spring and asked if I’d carry a baby for them, I didn’t even let Ryan finish asking.
“Yes,” I said. “Whatever you need. Yes.”
Having my own son, I understood exactly the kind of love they were aching for, so I wanted to give that to them.
I didn’t even let him finish asking.
They showed up for every appointment. Every single one. Melissa kept a small notebook and jotted down everything the doctor said, and Ryan held my hand through the blood draws because needles have always terrified me.
They watched the baby grow through every ultrasound.
