2

A week had passed without a sign from Beth or anyone at the agency. 

So much for “you’ll get a call within a week.”

Then the week turned into two. 

Two turned into a month. 

And that month very quickly turned into three, like time was sprinting while my life was crawling behind it, wheezing.

By the end of the third month, I had convinced myself that Beth probably shredded my application, burned the remains, scattered the ashes, and then blocked my number for good measure. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed her.

In those three months, life didn’t just continue — it escalated. It piled on. It stacked problems like it was playing emotional Jenga with me and waiting for the whole tower to collapse.

Meanwhile, real life didn’t politely wait for me to get a miracle phone call. No, real life barged in like a drunk uncle at Christmas.

After being threatened by the hospital’s manager with discharging my mother and sending her home without the medication and therapies that keep her alive, I had to fork out enough money to cover three of the oldest invoices. Three. The man drove a hard bargain, but I could tell that despite everything — and despite me being a pain in their ass — he admired me for doing everything I could for my mother.

At least that’s what I chose to believe. The alternative was that he simply enjoyed watching me sweat.

Paying those three bills meant the apartment lost luxuries like gas and electricity. But that’s where I was. I was lucky to eat at the diner during my shifts, and I showered at the hospital daily. I always told my mom I didn’t want to bring outside germs into her room, and thankfully the nurses agreed with my logic. Either that, or they were too nice and pitied me. Honestly, I didn’t mind either.

The hospital showers were nicer than mine anyway. Hot water. Good pressure.

The only luxury I kept was running my car. Technically it was my mom’s car, but it was essential. The hospital was over half an hour’s drive from where we lived, and public transport was not only slower but almost as expensive as driving. Plus, buses don’t run at midnight when you’re leaving a double shift and need to get to your mother’s bedside.

I finished my daily visit with Mom and was feeling really good after seeing her with enough energy to eat without assistance. That alone felt like winning the lottery. She even made a joke about the hospital food, which was a sign she was having a good day.

Her good days were rare. Precious. Like finding money in an old coat pocket. Or like seeing a rainbow after a storm — except the storm was my life, and the rainbow was my mother managing to lift a spoon without help.

“Jo.”

I heard the now-familiar voice of my mother’s doctor and cursed myself for forgetting the wig. Of all days to forget my disguise, it had to be today — the day I was in a good mood. The universe really hates me.

“Yes, Dr. Stavros? How are you this fine day? How’s the wife? The kids?” 

I plastered on my most innocent smile, sweetness dripping from every word. I was only a few steps from the elevator — I just needed it to open so I could dash inside and escape.

“I’m tired from working fourteen hours straight, my wife left me for her yoga instructor a year ago, and my kids complain their allowance isn’t enough to cover spring break in Bora Bora. But you know all that.”

He grumbled while my eyes flicked between him and the elevator like I was watching a tennis match. The elevator, of course, chose this moment to move slower than a sloth on sedatives.

Dr. Stavros is a great doctor, but he is a machine. He has no compassion and looks at patients the way I look at the hamburgers I serve at the diner. And even I feel bad for the cows sometimes. Stavros never does. For him, rules are rules and procedures are scripture.

He was the kind of man who probably alphabetised his spices and ironed his socks, and having my mother under his care while I’m constantly at least five months behind on payments is a miracle in itself. A miracle I was terrified would run out any day.

My phone rang, but I ignored it when I heard what he said next.

“I have a new clinical trial, and I think your mother would benefit from it.”

Despite knowing the drill, hope bloomed in my chest. A dangerous, stupid, stubborn hope. My heart sped up, and I felt that familiar rush of excitement — the one that always came before reality slapped me across the face.

The last two clinical trials were promising, but my mom was the lucky patient given the placebo both times. In hindsight, the last trial killed almost all the patients who received the actual treatment, so she lucked out. But the two who didn’t die made an almost full recovery. I see them when they come for check-ups, walking around like medical miracles.

So yes, I wanted my mother on this clinical trial. But I also knew the condition.

Which is why I sighed, glanced again at the elevator doors, and looked back at the doctor, waiting for him to say his usual line.

“You need to be up to date with payments…” I started at the same time he did.

“You need to be up to date with your payments, Jo.” 

He stared at me, unimpressed, his bushy eyebrows furrowing like angry caterpillars preparing for battle.

Before he could launch into another lecture, my phone rang again. I pulled it out, ready to silence it — and froze.

The surrogacy agency’s name flashed across the screen.

It felt like angels were singing. Or maybe I was hallucinating from stress. Either way, I wasn’t missing this call.

“Sorry, doctor, I have to take this. It may very well mean paying all the bills up to date.” 

I flashed him a smile and bolted for the stairs. No one uses them, and they’re quiet enough for a conversation.

I rushed down the first flight and answered the call, unable to contain my grin when I recognised Beth’s voice.

Please, God. Let this be good. Please.

She reintroduced herself — unnecessarily — and droned on about how the first step in my application had been successful. Her tone was so monotone I almost wondered if she was reading from a script or being held hostage.

“Wait… are you offering me the job?” I blurted out, incredulous.

“Well, that’s the whole point of a job interview, as I understand it. Now, would you be interested?”

Beth sounded a little snappy, but I couldn’t care less. As crazy as this job might be, I was past interested.

I was desperate.

Desperate enough to carry a stranger’s baby. 

Desperate enough to sign away nine months of my life. 

Desperate enough to hope this wasn’t the worst decision I’d ever make.

And for the first time in months, something inside me — something small and fragile — dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, things were about to change.

I leaned against the cold stairwell wall, letting the weight of it settle over me. The possibility. The relief. The fear. The hope. All tangled together like a knot I didn’t know how to untie.

My mother’s laughter echoed faintly in my memory — the way she used to sound before illness stole pieces of her. Before hospital rooms became our second home. Before I learned how heavy responsibility could feel on a single pair of shoulders.

If this worked… 

If I passed the medical tests… 

If everything aligned…

She could get better. 

She could live.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look like a dark tunnel with no exit. It looked like a door. A small one. A fragile one. But a door nonetheless.

I straightened, wiped my eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Yes,” I said, voice steadier than I felt, “I’m interested.”

And just like that, the world shifted — not dramatically, not with fireworks or trumpets — but with a quiet, trembling click.

A beginning.

And for the first time in months, I let myself breathe — really breathe — like someone who wasn’t drowning anymore, but finally, finally breaking the surface.