For one fleeting moment, I believed it was over.
The years of cold stares. The backhanded compliments. The wedding-day sabotage.
Maybe, just maybe, Patricia — my mother-in-law — had finally changed.
She had thrown me a baby shower.
Balloons. Cake. Gifts stacked high. Music playing softly. Even her daughter Heather greeted me with a hug and called me “radiant.”
I stood in the middle of her living room, surrounded by pastel decorations and forced smiles, and for the first time in years, I let myself hope.
Maybe the baby had softened her.
Maybe she finally saw me as family.
Then she handed me a sash.
Pink. Sparkly. Handmade.
And across it, in bold, glittering letters:
“Surrogate Mother.”
My blood turned to ice.
Eric and I had the kind of love people write novels about.
He kissed my belly every morning.
He held my hand through every ultrasound.
We painted the nursery together, arguing over whether “sky blue” was too cliché.
We were building a life.
A family.
And I had never felt more loved.
But his family? They never accepted me.
From the moment we met, Patricia made it clear: I wasn’t good enough.
She asked if I planned to “work forever.”
She told Eric I didn’t “look like a homemaker.”
And at our wedding, she tried to ruin it — storming down the aisle with her daughter and fiancé, yelling that their ceremony had been scheduled for the same time.
Eric told her to leave.
We left without saying goodbye.
And we hadn’t seen them in years.
Until one day, Eric came home with news.
“She called,” he said. “She wants to celebrate the baby. Start over.”
I laughed. “You actually believe that?”
“She sounded different,” he said. “Warmer.”
I didn’t believe it.
But I saw the hope in his eyes.
So I said yes.
One visit. That’s all.
The house looked the same — stiff, cold, like a museum of perfection.
But inside? A full-blown baby shower.
Diaper cakes. Onesies. A banner that read “Welcome, Baby!”
Heather hugged me.
Patricia called me “dear.”
Everyone touched my belly, gushed over my glow, acted like we were all one big happy family.
And for a second — just one foolish, fragile second — I thought maybe they’d changed.
Then Patricia raised her glass.
“We have a special gift for you, Julia,” she said, pulling out the sash.
I stared at it.
Surrogate Mother.
“What… is this?” I whispered.
Heather giggled. “You didn’t think we’d forget, did you? We’re so grateful.”
“Grateful for what?” I stepped back.
Patricia smiled. “You’re giving our family a gift. You told Heather you’d do it. This baby is for them.”
Eric’s face went pale. “What are you talking about?”
“She said it herself,” Heather said proudly, revealing her own sash: “Mom.”
“I said that a year ago,” I snapped. “When we were talking about how hard it must be to want a baby and not be able to have one! That was sympathy — not a contract!”
Patricia waved me off. “You can’t back out now. Heather and Mark have told everyone. They’ve planned their leave. Picked a name.”
My voice broke. “You ran with a fantasy. That was never real!”
Eric grabbed my arm. “We’re leaving.”
Patricia screamed after us: “You’re selfish, Julia! You owe this to the family!”
I turned back.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
We drove to a hotel in silence.
Later, Eric sat across from me, his voice low.
“Mark called. He said… they really want this. And he’s willing to make it worth our while.”
I didn’t move. “What does that mean?”
“Half a million dollars,” he said. “We could pay off the house. Start over. Have more kids later.”
“You talked about this? Without me?”
“I just listened,” he said. “But Julia… think about it.”
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I smiled.
And I started playing the game.
For the next three months, I played along.
Heather called every other day.
Patricia sent flowers.
Eric talked nonstop about what we’d do with the money.
I smiled.
I nodded.
I buried my rage deep.
Then I gave birth.
A perfect, healthy baby girl.
At the hospital, Heather and Patricia waited outside, buzzing with excitement.
I asked for time alone.
Eric agreed.
Mark had already transferred the money.
$500,000.
Into our joint account.
Eric squeezed my hand. “We’ll give her to them tonight.”
I kissed his cheek. “Okay.”
He hugged me. “You’re doing something incredible.”
I didn’t say a word.
Later, I told him I wanted to go buy a gift.
Something sweet.
Something to say goodbye.
He kissed my forehead. “You’re amazing, Julia.”
I walked out with our daughter in my arms.
On the elevator, I opened my banking app.
I moved every dollar.
All of it.
Into a private account I’d opened months ago — one he didn’t know existed.
The birth certificate?
Only my name.
That night, I sat in a quiet hotel room, feeding my daughter, watching her tiny fingers curl around mine.
My phone exploded — calls, texts, all caps.
WHERE ARE YOU? HOW COULD YOU? YOU PROMISED.
I didn’t answer.
The divorce papers were already on the kitchen counter, signed and waiting.
Because no amount of money — not half a million, not a million — would ever make me hand over my child to people who saw her as a transaction.
She wasn’t a gift.
She wasn’t a favor.
She wasn’t theirs.
She was mine.
And I would protect her — from them, from lies, from greed — for the rest of my life.