When my mother-in-law handed me a “special present” at my daughter’s first birthday party, I had a bad feeling. I’d weathered months of subtle jabs since choosing surrogacy, but I wasn’t ready for what I’d find inside that gift bag.
When I first met Linda, she clasped my hands and smiled like she already loved me. Her gaze studied my face, and I felt… chosen. Like I was exactly who she’d hoped for her son.
“You’re perfect for him,” she said softly, giving my hands a squeeze. “Just perfect.”
She embraced me as family when Jake and I married. We weren’t best friends, but we had warm moments—laughing over coffee, teasing each other about that awful green bean casserole at Thanksgiving. It wasn’t a fairy tale, but it was solid.
Which made it that much harder when things changed.
After a year of failed attempts to conceive, Jake and I sought answers. A battery of tests led to a diagnosis that left me gutted: premature ovarian failure.
I couldn’t carry a pregnancy. My eggs weren’t viable. It felt like our dreams had crumbled in a single sentence.
Then a lifeline appeared.
“Have you thought about adoption?” our friend Cheryl asked gently. “Or maybe surrogacy?”
I hesitated, but the idea took hold.
“I’d do it,” Cheryl said casually, almost like offering to babysit. But she meant it.
What began as a simple conversation quickly turned into meetings, contracts, and cautious hope.
And then came Linda.
When we told her about the surrogacy—and that Cheryl, our close friend, would carry the baby—her response left me cold.
“Surrogacy and a donor egg? Oh… that’s certainly a brave choice, Mandy,” she said, like I’d offered Jake a hall pass. “But won’t it be hard, knowing you needed another woman to give you a baby?”
I tried to explain. I told her Cheryl was both our egg donor and surrogate, and that this was a deeply personal decision.
Suddenly, Linda’s mood flipped.
She turned to Cheryl and lit up like it was Christmas morning. “How wonderful for my son,” she said, placing a hand over Cheryl’s. “There’s something sacred about the woman who carries the child. That bond—it can’t be replaced.”
Cheryl pulled her hand back gently. “I’m just the oven,” she joked. “It’s not my baby.”
“Oh, of course,” Linda replied, but her eyes never left Cheryl. I could feel the shift—and it made my stomach twist.
When the gender reveal came, I’d hoped for joy. I’d put my heart into planning every detail. But the moment Linda arrived, I felt the air change.
She moved through the party like it was hers—greeting guests, leaning in for hushed chats, stealing the spotlight.
And then… the gift.