For over a year, pregnancy had lived in my mind like a quiet, insistent rhythm. Since I was ten, I had dreamed of holding a tiny life in my arms, imagining the soft weight of a baby, the warmth of their breath against my chest. It had always been more than curiosity—it was a longing that had settled deep inside me, shaping my days, my choices, the way I saw the world. Money had always stood in the way. I wasn’t in a position to make my dream real. But surrogacy offered a path. It was practical. It was safe. And it gave me a way to touch the life I wanted without giving up everything else I had worked for. I became their surrogate, carrying six children for Talyia and Troy. A set of twins even surprised us along the way—oops babies, but loved all the same. Each pregnancy left its mark on me, every kick, every flutter, every moment of quiet anticipation cementing something permanent in my heart. I hadn’t expected love to find me. Not yet. Not while I was still living the rhythm of contracts and appointments and appointments and lists of names and gifts. But Oliver McEvans came into my life after the last delivery, at the tail end of my first contract. He wasn’t part of the surrogacy world—just someone entirely his own, a presence that shifted everything. He made me feel something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. Safe. Seen. Desired. He laughed with me, held my hand without agenda, and somehow made my heart lighter even while it had been weighed down for so long with responsibility and expectation. With him, I could imagine a future that wasn’t just schedules and payments, a future that held possibility for me, not just for the little lives I had carried for others. And suddenly, all those years of longing—the quiet ache I’d carried since I was ten—felt like it had been waiting for him, too. For the first time, I could imagine love and family intertwining, a soft warmth blooming that had nothing to do with contracts or deadlines. Just… hope.