I always believed my sister and I would grow old together—the kind of sisters who shared coffee-fueled rants, swapped kids’ clothes, and laughed at the same memories until they blurred. Claire was the composed one at 38, always polished, always in control. I was 34, usually late, hair in a messy bun, raising two curious, sticky-fingered kids in a house full of noise and love. My life wasn’t perfect, but it was alive.
When Claire married Ethan, I was happy for her. They built a pristine life—orderly schedules, a beautiful home, and plans measured in spreadsheets. What they didn’t have was a child. Years of trying wore Claire down. Treatments came and went. Hope rose and fell. I watched her quiet sadness deepen, and it hurt to see someone I loved fade that way.
So when she asked me to be their surrogate, I said yes without hesitation. We did everything by the book—doctors, lawyers, long talks. Claire’s hope returned, brighter each week. The pregnancy went smoothly. She came to every appointment, brought smoothies, and carefully wrote baby names in her neat handwriting. Ethan painted the nursery himself. Their joy felt real and contagious.
When Nora was born, the room filled with tears. Claire held her first, whispering that she was perfect. I felt peace settle in my chest. This was what we had all worked toward. They left the hospital glowing with new-parent excitement. We joked about visits. I went home believing we’d done something beautiful together.
Then the messages stopped.
At first, I brushed it off as exhaustion. Newborn days are chaotic. But the silence grew heavy. On the sixth morning, as I made breakfast and answered endless questions from my kids, there was a soft knock at the door.
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