The Surrogate’s Secret

My steps felt like lead as I left the ultrasound room. My four-month swollen belly pressed painfully against me, and I had to brace my hands on my hips, moving as if afraid each step would snap my spine. I breathed softly, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, the weight from my back down to my legs pressing relentlessly. “Four months already…” I whispered to myself, my hand instinctively resting on my belly, caressing it timidly. “Just four more months… then the money… and everything will be over.” But that ending felt more like a bottomless abyss. I hated this feeling—hated my swollen belly, hated myself for agreeing to carry a child that was not mine. Who was the father? I didn’t know. Every night in my shabby rented room on the outskirts, shame gnawed at me, making me wish I could disappear from the world entirely. A memory crept in, slow yet haunting: I remembered that day in the cold office room, signing the surrogacy contract with a third-party company. The representative handed me papers and money, no name, no warmth, no promises—only numbers and rigid terms. My hands had trembled, my heart pounding fiercely, yet the weight of my family’s struggles and the lure of money had driven me to that decision. “Alright… I agree…” I murmured so softly I could barely hear it myself. I had no idea who the father would be, nor what the child would look like—everything was a blind transaction, a reality I had been forced to accept. “Pregnant patient Clara Dawson!” The voice echoed down the stark white hallway, pulling me back to the present. I jumped, quickly pulling my coat to cover my belly, and hurried toward the reception desk, my voice hoarse: “Y-Yes… that’s me.” In my rush, I collided with a solid shoulder. The impact made me stagger. A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen, cold sweat trickled down my back. I clutched my belly, heart racing. “Oh God—” Immediately, a strong hand steadied my shoulder, preventing me from falling to the floor. Warm breath brushed against my neck. “Be careful…” The deep voice froze me. I slowly looked up. My heart skipped a beat. Those piercing gray-blue eyes, that high straight nose, the handsome face I had loved to death… “Andrew…” The name escaped my lips in a whisper, barely audible even to myself. For a fleeting moment, warm memories surged: three years ago, I had run through pouring rain, looking up to see his bright smile, arms wrapping me tightly. All vanished instantly as the gaze before me now was icy. Andrew frowned slightly, a heavy silence stretching for a few seconds, then the corner of his mouth curved—not in a smile, but a sneer. “ Oh Dawson- Clara Dawson.” he said coldly. “I thought… Clara Dawson had vanished into some forgotten corner.” I clenched my hands over my belly, pain tightening from below up to my chest, my throat dry. I wanted to speak, to explain, but every heartbeat seemed to choke my words. Andrew’s eyes flicked to my rounded belly under my coat, a hint of contempt flashing in his gaze. “So you’ve married… and you’re carrying a child?” “Andrew, I…” I choked, my voice hoarse and incomplete. “Clara Dawson, shut up.” He cut me off, his eyes sharp as knives. “Try to keep whatever dignity you have left, Clara.” With that, he withdrew his hand from my shoulder and turned sharply. I stood frozen, breathing heavily, my belly tightening with each pang. Outside, people hustled by, yet I felt disconnected from space, disconnected from time. At the end of the hallway, a woman waited for him. She wore a thin silk dress, her belly also visible. She smiled as Andrew approached, steadying her back, their hands naturally intertwined like a happy couple. A sharp pang pierced my chest. My heart felt shattered, fragments of sweet memories from the past splintering inside me. “Ms. Dawson?” the nurse’s voice called behind me. Startled, I tried to steady myself and stepped forward to receive the envelope with my results: “Here are your ultrasound and test results. Mother and baby are generally healthy, but special monitoring is needed. Please try to arrive on time for the next appointment.” “Thank you…” I whispered, hands trembling as I took the envelope. I didn’t open it, clutching it tightly, and walked out of the hospital doors. Outside, the city teemed with life, car horns blaring. My small figure seemed swallowed by the fading light of dusk. The taxi crawled slowly through the streets. I leaned against the window, watching the city drift by. I felt detached from my old world, from everything familiar, from dreams I had once held. Inside, anger, fear, longing, and denial swirled together. Back in my shabby rented room, I sank to the floor, clutching my belly, trembling. “Three years have passed, and he hasn’t changed much… only now, his gaze has grown so cruel.” I murmured, my inner voice lost. The envelope trembled in my hand, as if it too sensed the coldness that had pierced my heart. What haunted me wasn’t the persistent back pain, nor the ultrasound results… it was Andrew’s gaze—cold, merciless, as if I were the lowest being alive. My heart ached, and memories stormed back like an unannounced tempest. Three years ago, the day Andrew had just finished a grueling heart surgery, I had sat inside the hospital room, watching him lie on the bed, exhausted yet still radiant at my presence. My chest tightened; I wanted to run to him, to embrace him, but my words caught in my throat. “Andrew… we should stop…” I whispered, eyes brimming with tears, looking into his bright but confused gaze. “Clara… I just had surgery… don’t joke like that…” Andrew forced a weak smile, reaching out to take my hand, but I recoiled, tears streaking my cheeks. I couldn’t voice my reasons, only felt the fear and sense of abandonment that had clung to my heart from the very beginning. Finally, I turned away, leaving him lying in the hospital room, amid the pungent antiseptic and harsh white light, and from that moment, our paths diverged. Now, standing before his icy gaze, all the sweet memories of the past cut into me like knives. I felt the emptiness, the regret, the long-suppressed pain—all converging in every pounding heartbeat, in every contraction from the unborn child I carried.