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I Never Imagined I'd Be Part of Their Drama
I always knew James's family thrived on drama, but I never imagined I’d be at the center of one of their most twisted stories. It was supposed to be a simple family meeting, or so they said, but from the moment we got the invitation, something in the air felt off.
As James drove us to his mom Diane’s house, I could feel the tension thickening.
“What is it this time?” I asked, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “Did your mom misplace her china again and decide I hexed it?”
James didn’t laugh. His jaw tightened, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road. “It’s important, Jess. Just... keep an open mind.”
That should’ve been my first warning.
When we arrived, Diane greeted me with her usual tight hug—one that always felt more like an awkward ritual than a genuine embrace. James’s younger brother, Matt, was already sitting in the living room, fidgeting like a kid who’d just been caught doing something bad.
“Jessica,” Diane started, her voice sickly sweet, almost rehearsed. “We have something very special to ask you.”
I glanced over at James, and the look on his face was all I needed to see. He looked... guilty. Immediately, my gut told me this wasn’t going to be good.
Matt cleared his throat. “I’m engaged.”
I blinked. “Oh. Congratulations! When do we meet her?”
Matt and Diane exchanged a loaded look.
“She’s a wildlife photographer,” he said, his voice hesitant. “In Ethiopia. Signal’s bad.”
Right. “And…?”
“And she can’t carry children,” Diane added, her tone so carefully neutral it was suffocating. “Health issues. Which brings us to… you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
“You want me to be a surrogate?”
James squeezed my hand, his grip tight but his eyes distant, almost pleading. “It would mean the world to Matt. And the compensation would really help us. You know, for the college funds, kitchen renovations… all those things we’ve talked about.”
I blinked at him, unable to process what he was saying. “But I’ve never met her. Shouldn’t she be asking me?”
“She’s all in,” Matt chimed in quickly. “The embryos are already frozen. We just need someone we trust.”
Something inside me screamed no. Every instinct in my body told me to walk away, to refuse. But as I looked around at the faces waiting for my response—faces I’d come to care about in their own messed-up way—my heart sank. They were counting on me. And it wasn’t just their expectations weighing on me—it was the undeniable pull of obligation.
So I nodded, unable to find my voice for a long moment.
“I’ll do it.”
And just like that, my life—my body, my choices—were no longer mine.
The Pregnancy: A Brutal Test
The pregnancy was harder than I could have ever imagined. The nausea hit hard, morning sickness that lasted all day, swollen feet, endless sleepless nights. But what cut the deepest wasn’t the physical toll—it was the emotional isolation. Matt would visit regularly, asking how I was doing, but his fiancée? She didn’t even bother to call. Not once.
“Has she even tried to contact me?” I asked James one night, exhaustion lacing my voice.
“She’s in the mountains,” he said, his eyes on the television, not even sparing me a glance. “Let it go, Jess. Stress is bad for the baby.”
The baby. Not me. I realized then how far I’d fallen into this trap, how easily I’d allowed my worth to be measured by my ability to serve their needs.
By the third trimester, my unease turned into suspicion. Every excuse Matt gave me about his fiancée—about her being “too busy” in remote locations to reach out—felt like more and more of a lie. The vague stories about rare birds and dangerous terrain never seemed to add up. Something wasn’t right. But every time I pressed, I was told to let it go. To think about the baby. Not me.
Then came labor.
Pain. Panic. The feeling of being torn apart, of being forced to push through a new kind of agony. The room was sterile, cold, and the weight of everything I’d been holding in came crashing down as I labored.
And then, James left the room. His phone buzzed.
“She’s here,” he said, a flash of something like excitement crossing his face before he rushed out the door.
I thought I misheard him. But when he returned, he wasn’t alone. With him was a woman—tall, radiant, and smiling in a way that made my stomach churn.
Rachel. His ex. The one I’d banned from our lives six years ago when I found out he’d been stalking her online.
“Jessica!” she beamed, her eyes sparkling with gratitude. “Thank you so much. You made our dream come true!”
My heart shattered in real-time.
I turned to James, my voice trembling with the weight of betrayal. “You knew. You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”
James’s face was blank. “It wasn’t relevant,” he said flatly, as if this were some trivial matter.
My world cracked into jagged pieces.
“You manipulated me into carrying your ex’s baby,” I said, my voice breaking. The realization hit me harder than any pain I’d felt in that room. I wasn’t just a surrogate. I wasn’t just helping them fulfill their dream—I was a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Diane jumped in, trying to twist it into something positive. “You were just the perfect candidate. Two easy pregnancies, great health. Rachel wanted to keep her figure…”
I snapped. “I’m not a broodmare!”
Rachel’s eyes widened, and she stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
“Silence,” I spat, my voice raw.
Contractions came again, but this time, rage propelled me forward. There was no going back.
Once I was alone, I turned to James, my voice cold and final.
“We’re done.”
He scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic.”
But I wasn’t being dramatic. I was being decisive.
“I’m divorcing you. And I’m taking my share. House. Retirement funds. Custody. All of it.”
James paled.
The End of the Line
When the baby arrived, I held them for a fleeting moment—a heartbeat, just long enough to feel the last thread of my obligation snap—and then I handed them back.
“This child isn’t mine to keep,” I said, my voice hollow but firm.
Within a week, I met with a lawyer. I filed for divorce. I secured full custody of my kids. And I made sure James felt every ounce of the betrayal he’d poured into me.
He begged. He wept. He sent roses. He left voicemails, the desperation in his voice clear.
But I didn’t flinch.
“This wasn’t a mistake,” I told him. “It was a choice. And now I’m making mine.”
Three months later, the final papers were signed. My lawyer smiled at me with a glint of satisfaction.
“You won.”
I smiled back, though it wasn’t victory I was feeling.
“I didn’t win,” I said. “I just stopped losing.”
Outside, the cool air kissed my face as I stepped into my new life. My phone buzzed with a message from James.
“Rachel had the baby christened yesterday. They want you to know they’re grateful.”
I didn’t read it. I didn’t need to.
Delete.
Step.
Freedom.