Three days after the conversation at Harper's, I sat at my cramped studio apartment desk, laptop open to my student loan portal.
$87,000 stared back at me in bold red numbers.
The payment reminder email had arrived that morning—$1,100 due in two weeks, and my checking account held exactly $342.
I'd already maxed out my credit cards, already picked up extra shifts at the campus library that barely covered groceries.
My phone buzzed. Another reminder from the medical school application portal—deadline in three months, application fees alone would be $2,000.
I closed the laptop, pressing my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.
The surrogacy idea wouldn't leave me alone. It whispered during my anatomy lectures, screamed during my shifts shelving books, haunted me when I reheated ramen for the third night straight.
Sixty to ninety thousand dollars.
More money than I'd ever imagined having at once. Enough to breathe, to actually pursue my dreams instead of drowning in survival mode.
My phone rang. Unknown number. I let it go to voicemail, knowing exactly what it was. Sure enough, the robotic message confirmed my suspicions:
"This is an attempt to collect a debt. Please call us back at your earliest convenience regarding your account ending in 4471…"
I deleted it without listening to the rest.
A text from my landlord popped up next. Rent increasing $150 starting next month. New lease agreement attached.
I stared at the message, calculating. An extra $150 meant choosing between electricity and food. Meant another credit card I couldn't afford to open. Meant…
My phone rang again. This time, I recognized the number. Mom.
I answered on the third ring, forcing brightness into my voice. "Hey, Mom."
"Lila, honey. I've been thinking about you all day. Something told me to call and check in. How are you doing? How's school?"
"Everything's great," I lied, curling my legs beneath me on the secondhand chair. "Classes are going well. Just busy with applications and studying."
"You sound tired, sweetheart. Are you eating enough? Sleeping?"
"Of course I am. You don't need to worry about me."
There was a pause on her end, the kind that meant she was debating whether to push.
"I know you say that, but a mother always worries. I got a little extra from my shift at the diner this week. Tips were good. I could send you a hundred dollars, help with groceries or…"
"Mom, no." My throat tightened.
She worked two jobs already—the diner in the mornings, the cleaning service at night. She didn't need to be sending me money she couldn't spare.
"I'm fine, really. Save it for yourself. Maybe take a day off for once."
She laughed softly. "A day off. Wouldn't that be something." Another pause. "You'd tell me if you were struggling, right? If you needed help?"
"Of course I would," I said, hating how easily the lie came. "But I'm not. I promise. Everything's fine."
We talked for a few more minutes—her updates about the neighbors, her concern about my grandmother's arthritis, her excitement about a new recipe she'd tried.
Normal mother-daughter conversation, except every word felt like swallowing glass because I couldn't tell her the truth. Couldn't admit that her daughter was drowning in debt, couldn't sleep at night, was considering something insane just to stay afloat.
After we hung up, I sat in the silence of my apartment, listening to the radiator clank and the neighbors argue through thin walls.
Stefan's face appeared in my mind—tired smile, rolled sleeves, the way he said "Hello, Lila" like my name actually mattered.
I was pathetic, I knew, harboring this impossible crush on my best friend's stepfather. We barely had a relationship—polite greetings, occasional small talk when I was at Harper's, him remembering my coffee order.
That was it. That was all it had ever been.
Yet the thought of carrying his child made my stomach flip with something dangerously close to longing.
What would Harper think if she knew? The betrayal would be unforgivable—her best friend secretly applying to carry her stepfather's baby while harboring feelings for him.
Harper would see right through any altruistic excuse about helping the family.
She'd know the truth: that I was desperate enough to risk everything, selfish enough to insert myself into their family drama, delusional enough to think this could end well.
But the bills kept coming.
By midnight, I found myself typing into Google: "surrogacy agencies near"
Just research, I told myself. Just understanding the process.
The first website loaded—smiling women, happy families, testimonials about "the gift of life."
I clicked through requirements: age 21-39 (check), previous pregnancy preferred but not required (I qualified), psychological evaluation (I'd pass), medical screening (I was healthy).
The compensation page made my breath catch. Base fee: $85,000. Monthly allowance: $500. Maternity clothing: $1,000.
Lost wages reimbursement. Medical expenses covered. It was more money than my father made in two years before he left.
I created an account with a fake name—just browsing, not committing. The application form stared back at me, cursor blinking in the first field: "Why do you want to become a surrogate?"
Because I'm desperate, I thought. Because I'm in love with someone I shouldn't be. Because I'm drowning and this feels like the only life raft, even if it's made of thorns.
I typed instead: "I want to help families achieve their dreams."
The lie came so easily it scared me. I saved the draft without submitting, told myself I was just keeping options open. But deep down, I knew I'd already decided.
The question wasn't if I'd apply—it was how long I could pretend otherwise.
I clicked through profiles of intended parents—lawyers, doctors, tech executives—all smiling couples with perfect teeth and desperate eyes. Then I saw it.
Stefan and Eleanor Hale.
Their profile photo was professional, Eleanor's hand positioned strategically on Stefan's shoulder, both wearing the kind of coordinated navy that screamed family portrait.
The description was clearly Eleanor's work—clinical, efficient, mentioning their "stable home environment" and "commitment to expanding their family."
My cursor hovered over the "Express Interest" button. My hands were shaking. This was insane. This crossed every line. Harper would never forgive me.
But that $87,000 debt flashed in my mind, and Stefan's tired eyes in that photo seemed to be asking for something only I could give.
Before I could second-guess myself further, I clicked submit and slammed the laptop shut like it might explode.
For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the closed computer like it had betrayed me.
Then the reality of what I'd done crashed over me like a wave, and I shot up from my desk, pacing my tiny apartment, unable to sit still.
Jesus Christ, what had I done?