I always nodded.
I told myself every mother felt that way.
Back then, I told myself many things.
We signed the paperwork.
Richard came only once. He checked his watch twice and left before the ultrasound images were even printed. Vanessa offered a strained apology on his behalf.
Around the time of the anatomy scan, halfway through the pregnancy, I attended the appointment alone. The technician was friendly at first, chatting about baby names and nursery decorations while moving the wand across my belly. Then she fell silent, and her smile vanished.
She excused herself, and moments later the doctor entered. In a careful voice, he explained that there were soft markers associated with Down syndrome and asked if I would return for further testing.
Then she went quiet.
I gripped the side of the exam table as a feeling I couldn’t yet identify settled heavily in my chest.
The phone rang twice before Vanessa answered. I was perched on the edge of my bed, still wearing my work apron, clutching the curled ultrasound photo.
“Vanessa, it’s Emma. The doctor called. They want us to come in together. It’s about the baby.”
A pause followed.
“We’ve already spoken with Dr. Nguyen,” she replied. “Richard and I will meet you at our attorney’s office tomorrow. Mr. Pierce will explain everything.”
Before I could ask another question, the call ended.
“They want us to come in together.”
The law office was filled with glass walls and gray carpeting.
Mr. Pierce sat behind a desk larger than my entire kitchen. Richard and Vanessa sat nearby, avoiding eye contact.
“Emma, thank you for coming,” the attorney said. He pushed a folder toward me. “My clients have made a difficult decision. Given the diagnosis, they won’t be accepting the child after delivery.”
I stared at him, waiting for someone to admit this was some terrible misunderstanding.
“What do you mean, not accepting her?”
“Section nine of the surrogacy agreement you signed last spring,” Mr. Pierce replied, tapping the folder.
“My clients have made a difficult decision.”
“In the event of a confirmed fetal abnormality, my clients retain the right to decline placement. The infant will be transferred to the state foster care system following birth. My clients are released from all parental obligations,” the lawyer read.
It felt as though icy water had been poured over my head. My ears rang.
“You can’t be serious!” I turned toward Vanessa. “She’s a baby, your baby!”
Vanessa calmly folded her hands.
“We wanted a family, Emma. Not a project.”
“You can’t be serious!”
Richard finally lifted his gaze. He looked weary, but not remorseful.
“It’s better this way. For everyone.”
I left without signing a thing.
There was no need.
That clause had been sitting in the contract from the very beginning, long before any of us imagined it would ever matter. I made it as far as the parking garage before my legs gave out beneath me.
“It’s better this way.”
The remainder of my pregnancy passed through a fog of exhaustion and anxiety.
One afternoon Marcy found me crying in the break room. She didn’t ask why. She simply sat beside me with a paper cup of terrible coffee.
“Whatever it is, kid,” she said, “you don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
I kept working until my swollen ankles barely fit inside my shoes. I read everything I could about foster care, despite already knowing the system firsthand.
At one of my final appointments, Dr. Nguyen squeezed my hand.
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