6

Josephine

I didn’t expect the results of the millions of tests they ran on me to come back so quickly. They poked, prodded, scanned, questioned, and siphoned off what felt like half the blood in my body — and I barely flinched. I’d been terrified of the psychological evaluation, convinced they’d dig into every dark corner of my brain and find me unfit. But it wasn’t scary at all. Calming, even. All about me, my emotional readiness, and how to navigate bonding with a baby I would never see.

Usually, anything involving hospitals takes three to five business years — and with my mom’s situation, I know exactly what I’m talking about. But when my phone buzzed during what felt like the fiftieth rush hour of the day at the diner, I wiped my hands on my apron, opened the email, and nearly dropped my phone into a basket of chips I was clearing.

There were a lot of attachments and a wall of text, but I’d become fluent in medical paperwork. I skimmed for the important bits.

All clear.

Excellent health.

Good candidate for surrogacy.

Every line was green. Every number in range. Every doctor’s note annoyingly positive.

For a second, I thought maybe they’d mixed me up with someone else — someone who slept eight hours a night and didn’t live on caffeine and panic. But no. It was me. My name. My results.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding for months. My shoulders sagged. My lungs expanded. My heart felt like it had been released from a fist.

I didn’t get long to enjoy the moment.

“JO!”

My manager’s whisper‑shouted hiss cracked like a whip.

I shoved my phone into my apron and hurried to finish clearing the table so he could seat the next wave of customers. The diner was packed with the kind of people who made you question every life choice that led you here.

A family of six was arguing about whether pancakes counted as dinner food. Honestly, they looked like they’d have been happier staying home — same picky‑eater kids, less money out of the parents’ pockets, fewer grey hairs.

A couple was breaking up in booth three.

A toddler was screaming like he’d been personally betrayed by the existence of peas.

No one seemed happy to be here, yet here they all were, keeping the diner in a perpetual state of chaos.

And then there was table nine.

The problem table. Every shift had one, and tonight’s belonged to me.

Three men in cheap suits — I should know, I’ve owned enough of them — the kind who thought tipping was optional and complaining was a competitive sport. They’d been snapping their fingers at me all night.

As I approached, one of them waved his empty glass at me like I was a dog.

“Finally,” he said. “We’ve been waiting forever.”

“Apologies, busy day. What can I get you?” I said with a smile that felt stapled to my face.

He scoffed. “Doesn’t look that busy. Maybe pay attention to the customers and not your phone.”

I took their drink orders again, pretending I didn’t want to pour the iced tea over his head. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my wrist — not hard, but enough to make my skin crawl.

“Sweetheart,” he said, leaning back like he owned the place, “try to be quick with that, yeah? I might consider a tip if you’re a good girl.”

I pulled my hand back, biting my tongue. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

His friends laughed like I’d told a joke. I walked away before I said something that would get me fired.

In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter and breathed. Just a few more hours. Just a few more shifts. Just until I could get Mom into the clinical trial. For some reason, I had this feeling — this stupid, fragile feeling — that this time she might actually get better.

My phone buzzed again. A quick glance confirmed it was Beth from the Surrogacy Agency.

My heart jumped into my throat. I answered quickly, my eyes scanning the diner and immediately locking with the grubby guy from table nine. He scowled at me. I resisted the urge to flip him off and resigned myself to losing any chance of a tip. I just hoped they’d actually pay and not complain their way out of the bill. Because then I’d have to pay it.

“Hi, Josephine!” Beth’s voice was bright, excited. “Do you have a moment?”

“Uh—” I glanced at my manager. He was engrossed in a conversation with a customer. I slipped toward the back hallway, hoping for a sliver of quiet. “Sure.”

“I have wonderful news.”

I stilled. Wonderful news.

People didn’t say that to me. They said things like “We regret to inform you” or “Your payment is overdue.”

“You’ve been matched with a family,” Beth said. “Your profile is an exact match for what they were looking for. And as per the agreement, the agency has already sent the advance.”

I froze. I stupidly thought I’d have more time — while simultaneously wishing everything would move faster. But wait… did she say—

“The advance?” I asked. “What advance?”

“Yes! It’s already in your account. The family pre‑approved it. It’s meant to secure you, if you will. Their contract was set up to trigger the payment automatically as soon as we had a match — they had very specific requirements.”

Beth kept talking, but my brain snagged on one phrase.

Nonrefundable.

“Oh, and it’s nonrefundable,” she added cheerfully. “So even if you meet and either party decides not to proceed with the insemination, you still keep the money.”

As Beth moved on to talk about who I was matched with, I kept making polite “mm‑hm” and “I see” noises while opening my banking app with trembling fingers.

And there it was.

A number big enough to make my knees buckle.

Though, looking at my overdraft, it would be less than half left by tomorrow morning.

“Does it all sound okay? Josephine?” Beth asked. “Are you still there?”

“I— yeah. I’m here. I just… I’ve never seen this much money in my account without it being a mistake.”

She laughed softly. “It’s real. I’ll send you the details for next week’s meeting. I’m sure he looks forward to meeting you in person before the IVF procedures start.”

He?

I blinked.

But Beth was already wrapping up the call.

We hung up, and I stood there surrounded by the smell of frying oil and burnt toast, staring at my phone like it was a miracle.

This wasn’t just money.

This was time.

This was options.

This was my mother finally getting the best chance to get better.

And this was also giving someone the gift of a family.

“JO!” my manager barked again.

I shoved my phone away and went back to work, but everything felt different. Lighter. Like the world had shifted a few degrees in my favour.

Even table nine didn’t bother me as much. When the rude guy snapped his fingers again, I simply smiled and said, “Your drinks are coming right up,” and walked away before he could say anything else.

But as I turned, I caught him watching me — not with annoyance this time, but with something sharper.

Assessing.

Memorising.

A prickle crawled up my spine.