When Nikki agrees to co-parent with her ex, she never anticipates being treated like nothing more than a surrogate for his new partner. But as boundaries begin to blur and the demands pile up, Nikki comes to understand that this pregnancy isn’t truly about the babies—it’s about control. And she’s finished with being polite.
When Stan ended things with me, it wasn’t dramatic. It happened over a stiff, quiet coffee shop conversation and an apologetic shrug.
“I’ve been talking to Ursula again,” he told me. “I think there’s unfinished business between us, Nikki. Honestly, I just need to make sure she’s not the one that got away.”
“I understand,” I replied, forcing a smile at the waiter as he set down my slice of baked cheesecake. “You need to see it through. Not a problem.”
“You’re not… upset?” he asked, frowning over his coffee.
“I’m a little sad,” I admitted, “but let’s be real, Stan. We’ve only been together three months, and I’m not Ursula. We owe it to ourselves to see what else is out there.”
He nodded and asked for the check.
It was true—we’d only been dating for three months. Yes, it hurt, but I told myself to move on. And I nearly did…
Until two weeks later, when I found out I was pregnant. With twins.
Naturally, I told Stan. There was a long silence on the phone—then, unexpectedly, he started laughing. A choked, stunned, almost joyful laugh.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Twins?! Nikki, this is… this is amazing.”
“You’re actually happy?” I asked.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “I am! They’re two innocent babies who deserve the best life possible!”
It turned out Ursula had fertility issues, and Stan had always dreamed of becoming a father.
Stan made it clear that rekindling our relationship wasn’t on the table, but he wanted to be involved. As for Ursula, she “just wanted to be supportive of the process.”
But her version of “support” turned out to mean something very different.
Ursula insisted on meeting in person. She and Stan came to my apartment as though they were inspecting a rental—eyes scanning the space, taking mental notes. Before even sitting down, she launched into her terms.
“We want a home birth,” she began, as if we were already negotiating. “Formula feeding only, Nikki—that way we can split custody from day one. The babies will call me Mama and you’ll be Mommy. It will help avoid confusion in the long run.”
I blinked. Not from surprise, but from the sheer absurdity of her demands.
Stan sat silently beside her, sipping coffee and eating the brownies I had baked in the middle of the night to satisfy cravings. He gazed at her like she was discussing furniture arrangement. He nodded vaguely, never meeting my eyes when she spoke.
That’s when I realized—he wouldn’t stop her.
“You’re not serious,” I said, my voice flatter than I intended.
Ursula smiled one of those tight, practiced smiles you see on reality TV—polished but utterly insincere. “It’s important to co-parent with intention,” she said, as if quoting a Pinterest board.
The room felt too small, my own home suddenly foreign. I stood up, walked calmly to the door, and opened it. Without a word, I waited until they slowly left.
But her presence stayed—her vanilla-amber perfume lingering in the air, sickly sweet and headache-inducing.
I knew right then: this wouldn’t be a shared journey. It would be a battle.
From that point, Ursula began texting me every single day—asking if I was walking enough, eating the right fish, skipping yoga for prenatal acupuncture, sending me baby name suggestions and nursery color schemes.
She also complained about her job not granting her maternity leave. “It’s so unfair, Nikki. I know you’re the one carrying the twins, but I’m exhausted from all the planning.”
Eventually, I stopped replying.
Without asking, she scheduled a genetics appointment for us. I expected Stan to join, but instead Ursula arrived alone, trying to give her family medical history as if she were the one being scanned. The counselor had to redirect her—twice.
By the 20-week scan, I was allowed one guest. Stan asked if I’d take Ursula instead of him.
“No,” I told him firmly.
“She’s really invested in this,” he said sheepishly. “I think she’s just excited to have a role in this. And… I’m proposing to her this weekend.”
“I don’t care how invested she is, Stan,” I snapped. “This isn’t a group project. I’m growing two humans, not assembling an IKEA bunk bed.”
Three days later, she was his fiancée.
When I posted a simple baby bump photo, Ursula followed it with a glittery Instagram reel: “Expecting Twins! The non-traditional way. I feel so blessed!”—complete with pink and blue balloons, even though we didn’t know the genders yet.
Then she announced her baby shower. I wasn’t invited.
The final straw came at 24 weeks. I was folding tiny onesies when there was a knock at my door—hard and entitled. When I opened it, there was Ursula and her mother, Julie.
They came to tell me that I should give one of the babies to Ursula.
I stared at them, processing the audacity. Then something inside me went cold and steady.
“Oh, you want one of the babies? Sure,” I said calmly. “If you sign up to be a surrogate for my future dog. Nine months, natural birth, no epidural, and breastfeeding. Fair’s fair, right?”
Julie gasped. Ursula snapped, “That’s not the same thing!”
“Exactly,” I said, stepping closer. “Because children aren’t handbags or pets or consolation prizes. They’re mine. And you are nothing to them.”
I warned them—if they ever came near me again, I’d get a restraining order. Then I shut the door.
That night, I texted Stan: Your fiancée and her mother demanded one of my twins. If it happens again, I’ll get a lawyer, seek full custody, and you’ll have supervised visits only.
The next morning, I met with a lawyer. They explained that if I moved to another state before giving birth, custody laws would be in my favor. I packed up and left within the week, telling only my mother.
For a while, there was peace.
Then Ursula showed up at my workplace— a learning center for toddlers—slashing my tires, smashing my car window, breaking playroom glass, and screaming, “You stole my life, Nikki!”
The police arrested her on the spot. She faced charges for criminal damage, trespassing, and child endangerment.
I filed for an order of protection, which the judge granted instantly. I filed one against Stan, too.
I moved again—this time across the country with my mother—and started over.
They tried to reach me through emails, texts, and fake accounts. With the new evidence, I pressed charges again in my new state and renewed the restraining orders.
Now, in the quiet of my new apartment, it all feels surreal. The air smells of lemon soap, hardwood, and brownies. No late-night texts. No footsteps outside. Just me—and the two little lives kicking beneath my ribs.
They’ll have my last name. And that’s what matters most.