“Daddy, I want one.”
Eight months ago, after Eli was asleep, she sat across from me at our kitchen table with both hands wrapped around untouched tea.
“I signed up to become a surrogate,” she said.
For a second, I couldn’t answer.
“The agency pays almost $70,000,” she continued. “Enough for a down payment.”
I pushed my chair back. “No.”
“Calvin…”
“The agency pays almost $70,000.”
“No. There has to be another way.”
“I’ve looked.”
“I’ll work more, Ren.”
“You already leave before sunrise,” she whispered.
“I’ll take weekends.”
“You already miss enough weekends.”
“I’ll work more, Ren.”
I walked around the table and knelt beside her. “Renee, this isn’t something you should have to do because I can’t earn enough.”
She touched my face.
“We’re married. Let me carry some of this too.”
Then she told me the embryo transfer was already scheduled.
We argued for nearly three hours. I offered loans, overtime, moving farther away, selling the van, waiting five more years. She listened to every idea before gently shaking her head.
The embryo transfer was already scheduled.
By morning, I knew I wasn’t changing her mind.
***
