I should have known something was off when my husband James insisted we attend a “family meeting” at his mother’s house. The Parker family always had some drama brewing, but this time, I was about to become their unwilling star player.
His mother Diane greeted me with an unusually warm hug, while James’ brother Matt fidgeted nervously. Then came the bombshell request: they wanted me to be a surrogate for Matt and his mysterious fiancée in Ethiopia. The whole story felt fishy – the poor cell service, the frozen embryos, the urgency. But surrounded by expectant faces, including my husband’s pleading eyes, I reluctantly agreed.
The pregnancy was pure hell. While I suffered through morning sickness and swollen ankles, Matt’s elusive fiancée never once contacted me. When I pressed for details, I got vague excuses about rare birds and remote locations. By my third trimester, my suspicions had grown into full-blown alarm bells.
Then came delivery day – and the ultimate betrayal. As I lay exhausted from labor, in walked Rachel, James’ college sweetheart and the woman I’d caught him cyberstalking years earlier. This was no Ethiopian wildlife photographer – this was his ex, the real mother of the child I’d carried. My own husband had manipulated me into bearing his former flame’s baby.
The divorce papers were filed within weeks. I took everything – the house, our savings, full custody of our children. James’ tearful apologies fell on deaf ears. Some betrayals can’t be forgiven, especially when they turn your body into someone else’s bargaining chip.
