I used to believe love alone made a family. That was before I became a surrogate for my sister—and learned how fragile love becomes when expectations start to shape its edges.
Rachel and I were inseparable growing up. Two halves of the same heartbeat. We shared everything—secrets, clothes, reckless choices, and dreams of raising our children side by side. But life didn’t follow her script. Her first miscarriage shattered her. The second dimmed her light. By the third, she stopped smiling altogether.
She began to disappear. Skipped family dinners. Stopped visiting my boys—Jack, ten; Michael, eight; Tommy, seven; and little David, four. It was like joy had become unbearable.
Then, at Tommy’s birthday party, I saw her standing at the kitchen window. Outside, chaos reigned—balloons, frosting, kids in superhero capes. But Rachel stood still, hand pressed to the glass, eyes heavy with grief.
“They’re growing up so fast,” she whispered. “I always thought our kids would grow up together.” Her voice cracked. “Six rounds of IVF, Abby. The doctor says I can’t try again.”
Before I could speak, her husband Jason stepped in. Calm, composed, calculating. “We’ve spoken to specialists,” he said. “They recommended surrogacy. A biological sister would be ideal.”
Rachel turned to me, trembling. “Would you… carry our baby?” Her voice was barely audible.
That night, my husband Luke and I talked for hours. “You’ve already had four pregnancies,” he said gently. “This isn’t a small ask.”
“I know,” I said. “But if I can give Rachel what she’s been aching for, how can I not try?”
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