After three miscarriages, my husband and I turned to surrogacy and found Lisa, the woman who promised to give us the family we’d been fighting for. I had no idea she’d end up taking far more than she ever gave.
I’m Sarah, 30F, American. I was married to Greg, 32M.
For three years, our lives revolved around trying for a baby and losing it.
Pregnancy tests. Blood draws. Three miscarriages.
We stopped saying baby names out loud out of paranoia.
My doctor finally sat me down and said, “Your embryos are fine.
Your body is just… tired. Surrogacy is an option.”
Greg squeezed my hand.
That’s how Lisa came in.
She was 24, bright-eyed, warm, said she’d always wanted to “help a couple become parents.”
We did everything right. Contracts.
Lawyers. Counseling. Medical clearance.
The papers said it clearly: she was a gestational carrier.
The baby would be genetically mine and Greg’s. Legally mine.
I read that line about ten times.
The embryo transfer worked.
Two weeks later, positive blood test.
I sobbed into Greg’s shirt in the clinic parking lot. He kept repeating, “We’re going to be parents.”
At first, Lisa was a dream.
She texted bump photos.
“Little bean is doing great, Mama,” she’d write.
She called me “Mama.” Called Greg “Dad.”
We went to ultrasounds together.
I watched my son’s heartbeat on the screen and whispered, “Stay. Please stay.”
Around eight months, things started to feel wrong.
Texts slowed down.
Calls went straight to voicemail.
“She’s exhausted,” Greg said. “Third trimester.
Totally normal.”
I tried to believe him.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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