After three miscarriages, my husband and I turned to surrogacy. We were desperate. Exhausted. Broken in ways that don’t show on the outside.
That’s how we met Lisa—the woman who promised to help us build the family we’d been fighting for.
I had no idea she would end up taking far more than she ever gave.
My name is Sarah. I’m 30, American. I was married to Greg, 32.
For three straight years, our entire life revolved around trying to have a baby—and losing one.
Pregnancy tests lined up on the bathroom counter.
Blood draws. Doctor calls.
Hope… and then grief.
Three miscarriages.
After the second loss, we stopped saying baby names out loud. It felt dangerous, like tempting fate. After the third, we stopped talking about the future altogether.
That’s when my doctor finally sat me down and spoke gently, like she was delivering bad news wrapped in kindness.
“Your embryos are healthy,” she said. “But your body is tired. It’s been through trauma. Surrogacy is an option.”
I stared at the floor, trying not to cry.
Greg squeezed my hand hard and said,
“We’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”
That’s how Lisa came into our lives.
She was 24. Bright-eyed. Soft-spoken. Always smiling.
She told us she had always dreamed of “helping a couple become parents.”
“I just want to give someone the gift of a family,” she said, hand over her heart.
We did everything the right way.
Contracts. Lawyers. Counseling. Medical screenings.
Every form signed. Every rule followed.
In the clinic parking lot after the paperwork was finalized, I sobbed into Greg’s shirt. Not from fear—this time, from hope.
The contract said it clearly. Over and over.
Lisa was a gestational carrier.
The baby would be genetically mine and Greg’s.
Legally mine.
I read that line at least ten times.
The embryo transfer worked.
Two weeks later, the blood test came back positive.
I sobbed into Greg’s shirt again, right there in the parking lot.
He kept whispering, like saying it too loud might break it,
“We’re going to be parents. We’re really going to be parents.”
At first, Lisa was perfect.
She invited us to ultrasounds.
She sent bump photos.
“Little bean is doing great, Mama,” she’d text.
She called me “Mama.”
She called Greg “Dad.”
At appointments, I watched my son’s heartbeat flicker on the screen and whispered,
“Stay. Please stay.”
For the first time in years, I believed we were safe.
Around eight months in, things started to feel… off.
Her texts slowed.
Then stopped.
Calls went straight to voicemail.
I told Greg something felt wrong.
“She’s probably exhausted,” he said. “Third trimester. Totally normal.”
I wanted to believe him.
Then the money requests started.
“Insurance is being weird about some extra tests,” Lisa texted.
“Can you send an advance? I’ll keep all the receipts.”
I checked the contract. Medical expenses were already covered.
I showed Greg.
“It’s our baby,” he said. “We’re not going to nickel-and-dime her.”
So I wired the money.
Then another emergency.
Then another.
Each time, my stomach twisted into knots.
Each time, Greg said,
“She’s carrying our child, Sarah. Be kind.”
So I kept sending money.
Then one afternoon, my phone rang.
Caller ID: Lisa.
I smiled and answered.
“Hey! How are you feel—”
“Hi, Sarah!” she interrupted, way too cheerful.
“Big update!”
My skin went cold.
“What kind of update?” I asked.
“I’m part of this family permanently now,” she said brightly.
“Greg and I are together.”
My brain froze.
“I’m sorry… what?”
“Oh,” she added casually, “the money you wired? I spent it. Wedding’s booked.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“That was surrogacy money,” I whispered. “That was for the baby.”
“Yep,” she said, like we were chatting about lunch.
“And the baby? You’ll see.”
Then she hung up.
I stared at my phone, waiting for reality to reload.
It didn’t.
I called her back. Voicemail.
Hands shaking, I called Greg.
“Hey, babe,” he answered.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At work. Why?”
“Lisa just called,” I said. “She says you’re together. She says she spent the money. She says you have a wedding booked.”
Silence.
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.
Nothing.
“Greg,” I snapped. “Tell me she’s lying.”
He exhaled.
“Sarah… I didn’t mean for—”
“Is she lying?” I demanded.
Silence again.
“What about the baby?” I asked.
That was my answer.
“You’re cheating on me,” I said quietly. “With our surrogate.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said weakly.
“You were stressed, and she was there, and we just connected—”
I laughed. It came out broken and ugly.
“She was there because she’s carrying our baby,” I said.
“That’s literally her job.”
The next days blurred together.
I cried until my eyes burned.
I screamed into pillows.
I stood in the empty nursery and wanted to destroy everything.
Then something inside me snapped.
“I want my child.”
I called the surrogacy agency.
They were panicking.
“We can’t reach her either,” the coordinator said. “This is completely against protocol.”
“That’s nice,” I said flatly. “But I want my baby.”
So I got a lawyer.
He was serious, late 50s, the kind of man who had seen every possible disaster.
He read everything in silence.
Finally, he looked up.
“Legally, this child is yours,” he said.
“Not Lisa’s. Not Greg’s new ‘family.’ Yours.”
“But they moved out of state,” I said. “They have my baby.”
“That complicates logistics,” he said calmly.
“Not the law.”
Weeks passed.
Then one night at 2 a.m., my friend texted me a screenshot.
“Is this her?”
It was Lisa.
Wearing a blush robe. Hair in rollers.
Holding my baby.
Caption:
“Tomorrow I marry my best friend and celebrate our little family.”
Greg was kissing her cheek.
My son wore a onesie that said Mommy’s Boy.
I thought I might vomit.
Their wedding was in three days.
I booked a ticket.
I pulled out a dress from before miscarriages stole my life.
Did my hair.
Put on red lipstick.
Not for Greg.
For armor.
The venue was a rustic barn with fairy lights and chalkboard signs.
I slipped in unnoticed and sat in the back.
I watched them exchange vows.
“I never knew real love until you and our son,” Greg said.
I tasted bile.
At the reception, my baby slept in a car seat by the head table.
When speeches started, I moved.
I set a small wrapped box on the table.
“Wedding gift,” I said lightly.
Inside:
Contracts.
Bank transfers.
Texts.
A USB drive.
The top page read:
SURROGACY FRAUD & EVIDENCE
The room went silent.
Then the doors opened.
Police.
Child services.
“This is an active investigation,” an officer said.
I picked up my son.
“Hey, baby,” I whispered. “It’s Mom.”
That night, the judge signed an emergency order.
Full custody.
People say what I did was dramatic.
But I’d already done quiet.
Quiet miscarriages.
Quiet betrayal.
The box wasn’t a gift.
It was a reminder.
You can steal a husband.
But you cannot steal a child from a mother
and expect her to stay silent.