We approached the surrogacy with meticulous care. There were lawyers, doctors, and psychological evaluations. But beyond the contracts, there was a shared dream. I wanted Claire to know the soul-rewiring joy of a little voice calling her “Mommy.” I wanted her to have the sleepless nights that somehow make everything else in life feel worth it.
The pregnancy was a period of rare harmony. I endured the morning sickness, the swollen ankles, and the midnight cravings for pickles and ice cream, fueled by Claire’s infectious excitement. She attended every ultrasound, her fingers trembling as she touched my growing belly, trying to catch a stray kick. She curated a Pinterest board of five hundred pins—soft yellows, hand-painted clouds, and wooden animals. Ethan spent weekends painting the nursery himself, declaring that their daughter deserved nothing less than perfection. Every flutter of life inside me felt like a promise we were keeping together.
