His accidental surrogate

Processing

Kyra***

I barely remembered driving home.

The world outside my car window blurred past. Stoplights, people, sunlight. None of it registered. My hands were on the wheel. My heart was in my throat.

As soon as I got inside my apartment, I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the floor right there in the entryway.

I was possibly pregnant.

With a stranger's baby.

Not just any stranger. A man with a face. A name. A voice that sent heat down my spine, even while my head spun with panic.

Zaire Cruz.

He wasn't what I imagined when I thought donor. He wasn't anonymous. He wasn't distant. He was real, solid, and infuriatingly calm about the whole thing.

And now he was tangled in a moment I had crafted so carefully for myself.

I spent months preparing for this decision. Therapy. Research. Nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I could really do it alone. I finally said yes to motherhood on my terms.

And now?

My terms were shattered.

I hugged my knees to my chest and whispered, "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

I keep picturing him after I left.

In my head, he's still sitting in the backseat of that blacked out SUV parked outside the clinic. I didn't see it, but I felt it. Like he hadn't moved. Like he didn't tell his driver to go yet.

I wonder if he was staring out the window, one arm resting across his lap, playing with the leather band of his watch the way men do when their mind is storming.

I keep hearing my own voice in my head.

"Do I even want to know why your sperm was here?"

It was rude. I know it was rude. But I was rude because I was scared.

He wasn't like what I expected either. I could tell by the way he looked at me. I was sharp with him. Beautiful in that grown woman way that doesn't need effort, or at least I try to be. I have that mix of softness and fire my sister always says will get me in trouble, and a mouth that doesn't sugarcoat anything.

I looked at him like he was a thief.

Like he stole something from me.

I couldn't help it. In that room, it felt like he had.

But he didn't want this either. I saw it in his jaw, in the way he finally sat down. His plan was to settle down when or if he was ready. Build a legacy. One day, not today.

Now there was a possibility of a child out there. His child. A life he didn't ask for but couldn't unclaim either.

And that scared me more than anything.

My apartment felt too quiet. The hum of the city outside couldn't drown out the loud, chaotic storm swirling inside my head.

Two weeks. That's how long I had to wait.

Two weeks of not knowing.

I kept replaying the doctor's words, Zaire's face, the way he looked so calm but strained. I barely knew him. A man who'd never meant to be part of my story, whose sperm was never supposed to be used.

And yet, here we were.

I wasn't ready to reach out. Not yet. Not when everything felt like a mess I wasn't sure I could control.

Instead, I filled my days with distractions. Work deadlines, phone calls with my sister, binge watching rom coms with the volume low so I could think.

At night, the silence was worse.

My mind zeroed in on every tiny feeling. My stomach fluttering, a dull ache, a sudden rush of nausea that might have been nothing.

I checked my calendar obsessively, circling the date when I'd finally be able to take a pregnancy test. The moment that would change everything.

What if it's positive? I wondered. What if I'm ready, or what if I'm not?

I wasn't sure if I was scared or hopeful or some confusing mix of both.

I told no one. Not yet.

Because I didn't know how to explain the impossible.

I tried to imagine what he was doing. Back to his usual rhythm, but nothing feeling usual anymore.

In my head, he spent hours staring out the window of his apartment, the city lights blurring as he wrestled with a storm of thoughts.

His frozen sperm, meant for a future he planned to build on his own timeline, had been used without his permission.

A stranger might be pregnant with his child.

And he didn't even know me.

We were connected only by a mistake. A cold error in a sterile room.

He hadn't called me.

He hadn't texted.

Not yet.

Instead, he kept his distance, even as the news settled.

Two weeks. The same waiting period.

But for him, the stakes felt impossibly higher. At least that's what I told myself. Because unlike me, he didn't know if he wanted this to be real. Did he want to be a father to a child he hadn't planned for? Did he want to be part of a life he hadn't chosen?

The questions circled like vultures, and they weren't just his. They were mine too.

I buried myself in work, late nights, and old music that reminded me of better days, days when the future was still a blank page.

I refused to imagine what came next.

Because if I did, there was no going back.

I'm still on the floor.

My knees are still at my chest.

The question I asked is still in the air.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

I still don't know.

But I'm here.

And that has to be enough for tonight.