Vanessa’s doctor had advised that another pregnancy might carry significant risks for her.
They were exploring gestational surrogacy.
They wanted to know whether I would consider carrying their child.
Ethan had barely finished before I said:
“Yes.”
Vanessa stared.
“Claire.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t even thought about it.”
“I’ve watched you think about it for six years.”
“Still.”
“We would do this properly.”
“Doctors.”
“Attorneys.”
“Everything.”
“But yes.”
Vanessa started crying.
Then I did.
Ethan stood and wrapped both of us in his arms.
“I don’t know how we’d ever repay you.”
I told him:
“You don’t.”
I meant it.
The pregnancy was not effortless.
But it was filled with anticipation.
Vanessa attended appointments carrying a notebook.
She recorded questions before seeing the doctor and wrote down answers afterward.
She learned more about prenatal vitamins than any non-physician should reasonably know.
Ethan came too.
At first.
He held my hand during blood draws because I still hated needles despite having given birth once.
He made jokes during ultrasounds.
He built furniture.
He painted the nursery twice because Vanessa decided the first shade of green looked “emotionally aggressive.”
But midway through the pregnancy, Ethan began changing.
Tiny things.
Checking his phone constantly.
Leaving appointments early.
Canceling dinner.
Claiming work emergencies.
I asked:
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Busy quarter.”
He worked as operations director for a logistics company in Bellmere.
