“I’m a part of this family permanently,” she said. “Greg and I are together now.”
My brain jammed. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, and the money you wired?” she added.
“Spent it.
Wedding’s booked.”
Everything in me went cold.
“What do you mean, spent it?” I whispered. “That was surrogacy money.
That was for the baby.”
“Yep,” she said, like we were chatting about brunch. “And the baby?
You’ll see.”
She hung up.
Just like that.
I stared at the screen, waiting for reality to reload.
It didn’t.
I called back.
Straight to voicemail.
Hands shaking, I dialed Greg.
He picked up. “Hey, babe.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Lisa just called,” I said. “She said you’re together.
She said she spent the money.
She said you two have a wedding booked.”
Silence.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Greg,” I said, voice tight. “Tell me she’s lying.”
He exhaled.
“Sarah, I… I didn’t mean for—”
“Answer the question,” I snapped. “Is she lying?”
More silence.
That was my answer.
“You’re cheating on me,” I said quietly.
“With our surrogate.”
“It wasn’t like that.
I’ve already filed for divorce,” he said. “You were so stressed, and she was… she was there, and we connected and—”
I laughed, this ugly, broken sound.
“She was there because she’s carrying our baby,” I said. “That’s literally her job.”
He didn’t say anything.
“And now you’re going to marry her with the money we saved for the pregnancy?” I asked.
“What about the baby, Greg?”
“We can come to an amicable agreement,” he mumbled.
“There is no ‘we’,” I said, and hung up.
The next days were a blur.
I cried.
I screamed into pillows. I stared at the empty nursery and wanted to burn the house down.
Eventually, the divorce papers came through, and I signed them without a morsel of regret.
Then I got angry.
I called the surrogacy agency. They were panicking.
“We can’t reach her either,” the coordinator said.
“We are so, so sorry.
This is totally against protocol.”
“That’s cute,” I said. “But I want my child.”
So I got a lawyer.
He specialized in surrogacy and custody. Late 50s, serious, the kind of guy who had seen everything.
I brought everything: the contract, our emails with the agency, screenshots of Lisa’s texts about money.
He read in silence, flipping pages.
Finally, he looked up.
“But she’s moved out of state with him,” I said.
“They have my baby.”
He nodded.
“That complicates logistics. Not the law.”
He tapped the contract.
“We’ll file for emergency custody and criminal charges,” he said.
“It won’t be instant, but you have a strong case.”
I left his office clutching a folder and a tiny bit of hope.
Weeks crawled by.
Then, one night around 2 a.m., my friend texted me a screenshot.
“Is this her?” she wrote.
It was Lisa. In a blush robe.
Hair in rollers.
Holding my baby.
Caption: “Tomorrow I marry my best friend and celebrate our little family.”
Greg was in the background, kissing her cheek.
Our son was in her arms, in a tiny onesie that said “Mommy’s Boy.”
I thought I might vomit.
I clicked the tag.
Pictures of the venue set-up. Flowers. Cake.
Hashtag: #GregAndLisaForever.
I saved every single photo and forwarded them to my lawyer.
“This helps,” he replied.
“We’ll use it in court.”
But court was still days away.
Their wedding was in three.
I stared at the date on my screen and thought, No.
You don’t get a perfect little fairytale on top of everything else.
So I made a different plan.
I booked a ticket.
I pulled out a dress from the back of my closet, one I wore before miscarriages and appointments swallowed our lives.
I did my hair the way Greg used to like. Put on red lipstick I hadn’t touched in a year.
Not for him.
For me.
For armor.
The venue was exactly what I expected.
Rustic barn. Fairy lights.
Chalkboard menu.
I walked in with confidence and sunglasses and no one questioned me.
Weddings are chaotic; people assume you’re supposed to be there.
I slipped into a back seat for the ceremony.
Greg stood at the front in a navy suit, looking proud and nervous.
The music started.
Lisa walked down the aisle in white, clutching a bouquet.
A bridesmaid carried my baby boy, then sat with him in the front row. He wore a tiny vest and bow tie.
He had beautiful dark hair.
I gripped the back of the pew to keep my hands steady.
They did vows.
“I never knew what real love was until you and our son came along,” Greg said, voice thick.
I almost laughed out loud.
They kissed. Everyone cheered.
I tasted bile.
At the reception, I moved closer, blending in with guests.
My baby napped in his car seat beside the head table, a little fist tucked under his chin.
He looked so peaceful.
The opposite of everything inside me.
I waited.
When the DJ announced speeches, the best man stumbled up with a mic and a drink.
Everyone clapped.
Perfect timing.
While they laughed, I walked up the side of the room, staying behind servers and pillars.
When I reached the head table, I stepped forward.
“Hi,” I said lightly.
Greg turned.
His face drained of color.
“Sarah?” he breathed.
Lisa’s smile dropped.
I set a small, neatly wrapped box in the middle of the table.
“Wedding gift,” I said.
The best man, already tipsy, grinned.
“Oooh, a present!” he slurred. “From who?”
He tore off the paper and lifted the lid.
Inside: a USB drive, and neatly clipped copies of the contract, the bank transfers, and Lisa’s “spent it” texts.
On top of the page, in bold: SURROGACY FRAUD & EVIDENCE.
He squinted.
“Uh…”
Lisa grabbed the paper.
Her eyes flew across the page. Her face went chalk white.
“What is this?” she hissed.
“It’s proof,” I said.
“Of how you stole my money and tried to steal my son.”
People nearby went quiet.
The DJ turned the music down.
Greg snatched a sheet from her and read.
I watched the color drain from his face.
A cousin at the table grabbed another page.
“Bro,” he said loudly, “this says the baby isn’t even hers.”
He pointed at Lisa.
“It’s Sarah’s. You two used surrogacy money for this wedding?”
The room started buzzing.
Lisa spun toward me.
“You’re insane,” she snapped. “You abandoned him.
We stepped up.
We’re his parents now—”
“That’s a lie,” I cut in. “The contract, the DNA, the payments, the texts… they all say otherwise.”
I pointed at the USB.
“Full message history,” I said.
“Including you laughing about spending ‘baby money’ on your big day.”
From the back, someone muttered, “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Yes,” I said loudly. “Which is why my lawyer already filed criminal charges and an emergency custody petition.”
I glanced at the door.
Almost on cue, the barn doors opened.
Two police officers and a woman from child services walked in.
The room went dead silent.
One officer surveyed the scene, then walked to the head table.
“You’re Greg?” he asked.
Greg cleared his throat.
“Yes.”
“And you’re Lisa?”
Lisa crossed her arms.
“What do you want?”
“We need to speak with you both about an active investigation into surrogacy fraud and unlawful retention of a minor,” he said.
A collective gasp rolled through the room.
The child services worker came to my side.
“Ms. Sarah Reynolds?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I said, clutching my clutch so hard my knuckles hurt.
“We reviewed your attorney’s documents,” she said. “Is that your child there?”
She nodded toward the car seat.
My chest ached.
“Yes.
That’s my son.”
Lisa lunged forward.
“No!” she screamed. “He’s mine!
She didn’t want him!”
The worker stepped between us.
“Ma’am,” she said firmly, “the paperwork indicates otherwise.”
Greg grabbed Lisa’s arm.
“Stop,” he muttered. “Just stop.”
“Tell them I’m his mother!” she shrieked.
“Greg!”
He didn’t.
He just stared at the evidence on the table.
At me.
At the officers.
I walked to the car seat on shaky legs.
My son stirred as I unbuckled him.
He blinked up at me, confused, little mouth making an O.
I lifted him to my chest.
He fit perfectly.
“Hey, baby,” I whispered, voice cracking.
“It’s Mom.”
He grabbed a fistful of my dress and made a tiny noise.
I lost it. Tears everywhere.
Behind me, voices blurred.
Officers reading rights. Guests whispering things like “disgusting” and “how could they.” Lisa screaming.
Someone sobbing.
I didn’t care.
All I heard was my son’s little breath against my neck.
That night, at the station, my lawyer met me with coffee and more papers.
The judge signed an emergency order granting me full temporary custody.
My lawyer slid the document toward me.
“You did good,” he said.
“You were smart to prepare all that.”
“Petty,” I corrected softly. “But thank you.”
Greg and Lisa were being held and processed.
Fraud. Theft.
Whatever else the DA could stick to them.
When I finally walked out into the parking lot, my son asleep in his carrier, the sky was turning purple.
I buckled him into the backseat of my car, then just sat there, hands on the steering wheel, shaking.
“You’re safe now,” I whispered.
“I’ve got you.”
Sometimes I replay the wedding in my head.
Lisa’s face when she opened the box.
Greg’s when he realized I hadn’t just curled up and died.
Guests watching their perfect, stolen fairy tale implode.
People say what I did was dramatic.
That I should’ve just waited quietly for court.
But I’d already done quiet.
Quiet miscarriages.
Quiet tears.
Quiet betrayal.
I needed to stand up for myself.
The box I put on their head table wasn’t just a gift.
It was a reminder.
You can steal a husband.
You cannot steal a child from a mother and expect her to stay silent.
Was the main character right or wrong? Let’s discuss it in the Facebook comments.
