One evening after yet another doctor’s appointment, I sat on the edge of our bed and finally spoke the words aloud.
“Maybe we should stop trying.”
Ethan stood by the window with his back turned toward me. “I don’t want to give up on having a child.”
Several weeks later, he walked in carrying a thick stack of paperwork under his arm, his face bright with excitement. “I’ve been researching surrogacy.”
I looked down at the documents and then back at him. For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe we would be okay.
From that point forward, Ethan took charge of everything—the agency, the legal arrangements, the interviews.
Eventually he introduced me to Claire. She was kind, easygoing, and immediately likable. She already had two children of her own.
The contracts were finalized. The embryo transfer succeeded.
Claire was pregnant.
For the first time in years, Ethan and I felt like we were becoming a family again. Like we were finally building something together after so long spent watching our plans crumble.
In the beginning, we visited Claire together. We brought vitamins, bags of groceries, and even a pregnancy pillow I had spent nearly forty minutes picking out online.
