Title: She Wanted to Co-Parent—But They Treated Her Like a Surrogate
When Nikki agreed to co-parent with her ex, she thought it would be simple. Share responsibilities. Keep things respectful. But what started as cooperation turned into something toxic. It wasn’t just about the babies anymore—it was about control. And Nikki had finally had enough.
When Stan broke up with me, it wasn’t messy. No yelling. No big drama. Just a quiet conversation over lukewarm coffee in a downtown café.
“I’ve been talking to Ursula again,” he said, rubbing his neck like it hurt to say it. “I think there’s still something there. I need to find out if she’s the one who got away.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue. I just nodded and smiled at the waiter as he placed my slice of cheesecake on the table.
“You have to see this through,” I said softly. “It’s okay, Stan. We’ve only been together for three months. I’m not Ursula. Maybe you’re meant to figure that out.”
He looked confused. “Aren’t you… upset?”
I shrugged. “I’m sad, sure. But if you’re not all in, then we both deserve better. So go. Find your answers.”
He gave a tight nod and asked for the check. Just like that, we were done.
It hurt, of course. Breakups always do, even the clean ones. But I told myself to move on. I almost did.
Until two weeks later, when I found out I was pregnant. With twins.
I called Stan. I had to. I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but I wasn’t prepared for what I heard.
He laughed.
Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But this strange, shocked, joyful laughter.
“Oh my God. Twins?! Nikki, this is… this is amazing!”
“You’re happy?” I asked, confused.
“Yes! Are you kidding? Two innocent babies? This is a blessing!”
Apparently, Ursula couldn’t have children. And Stan had always wanted to be a dad.
He told me getting back together was off the table—but he definitely wanted to be involved. As for Ursula?
“She just wants to support the process,” he said.
Support. That word would twist into something I never expected.
Ursula wanted to meet. She and Stan came to my apartment like they were touring an Airbnb.
She didn’t sit. Didn’t smile. She got straight to business.
“We want a home birth,” she started like she was leading a business pitch. “Formula feeding only. That way we can split custody from day one. And the babies will call me ‘Mama.’ You’ll be ‘Mommy.’ It helps avoid confusion.”
I blinked at her. Not in surprise—but because I thought I might scream if I didn’t ground myself.
Stan sat beside her, eating the brownies I’d made the night before thanks to my cravings. He nodded a little. Never looked at me.
He wasn’t going to say a word.
“You’re not serious,” I said. My voice came out flat, low.
Ursula smiled. A fake, polished grin straight out of a reality TV show.
“It’s important to co-parent with intention,” she said like she was quoting a Pinterest board.
I stood up. Quietly. My knees trembled, but I stayed strong.
Without a word, I walked to the door and opened it.
The silence that followed felt thick, heavy.
They left. But her perfume—some headache-inducing vanilla scent—stayed behind.
I leaned against the door, exhaled, and whispered, “This isn’t co-parenting. This is war.”
From then on, Ursula texted me every day.
She wanted updates on my walking schedule. My meals. She told me to switch from yoga to prenatal acupuncture. She sent baby name ideas. Paint color palettes. She even complained that her job didn’t give her maternity leave.
“It’s so unfair, Nikki,” she wrote. “You’re carrying the twins, sure. But I’m so emotionally drained from all the planning.”
I stopped replying.
Then she scheduled a genetics appointment—without telling me. She showed up alone. Stan wasn’t there. She tried to answer the doctor’s questions about family medical history.
The counselor had to redirect her. Twice.
By the 20-week scan, when I was allowed to bring one person, Stan asked if I could take Ursula instead of him.
I said no.
“She’s really invested in this,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “She just wants to feel involved.”
“This isn’t a group project, Stan!” I snapped. “I’m growing two human beings, not building a freaking IKEA bunk bed!”
Things hit another level when I posted a baby bump photo. Just me. Quiet. Peaceful.
A few hours later, Ursula posted a sparkly Instagram reel with balloons and fake glitter:
“Expecting Twins the Non-Traditional Way! Feeling so blessed!”
There were blue and pink decorations—even though I didn’t know the genders yet.
Then… she threw a baby shower.
I wasn’t invited.
That wasn’t the last straw. But what came next?
That burned it all to the ground.
It was late March. I was about 24 weeks along. My belly was huge. My ankles were sore. I was folding tiny baby onesies while watching a home renovation show.
Then there was a knock.
Not gentle. Not neighborly.
It was the kind of knock that says, “We’re not asking permission.”
I opened the door—and there stood Julie, Ursula’s mom, all perfume and fake pearls. And behind her? Ursula, holding a coffee like she was arriving at brunch.
“No text? No call?” I asked, arms crossed over my belly.
“This won’t take long,” Ursula said, striding in.
Julie smiled like we were about to discuss wedding favors.
“We’ve been thinking,” she said. “And… we believe it makes the most sense.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For you to give one of the babies to Ursula,” Julie said, like she was offering me a helpful solution.
“I’m sorry, WHAT?!”
“You already have two,” Ursula said, rolling her eyes. “It’s only fair.”
Fair?
Like I won a raffle and didn’t need both prizes?
I could’ve screamed. Could’ve thrown the ceramic elephant I was folding baby clothes around.
But instead… I smiled.
“Oh, you want one of the babies?” I asked sweetly. “Sure. I can agree.”
They lit up. Julie’s grin stretched. Ursula leaned in.
“What do you want in return?” she asked.
I tilted my head.
“I want you to carry a dog for me.”
“Excuse me?” she blinked.
“Be a surrogate. For my future puppy. Nine months. Natural birth. No epidural. And you breastfeed it too.”
Julie gasped.
“That’s not the same!” Ursula shouted.
“Exactly,” I said. “Because children aren’t accessories. Or pets. Or favors you pass around.”
I took one step forward.
“They are my children. And you? You’re just their father’s girlfriend.”
Dead silence.
“If you or your mom ever show up again uninvited, I’ll get a restraining order so fast your ‘non-traditional family’ won’t know what hit it.”
I smiled. Sweet. Sharp. Final.
“Have a nice day, ladies.”
Then I shut the door.
I leaned back and rubbed my belly. “Well, babies,” I whispered. “Looks like your dad got us into a real mess.”
I picked up my phone and texted Stan:
“Your girlfriend and her mother just tried to claim one of my babies. If it happens again, I’m getting a lawyer and full custody. You’ll be lucky to get supervised visits. Choose wisely, Stan.”
He didn’t reply.
The next day, I met with a lawyer. They told me custody agreements couldn’t be settled until birth—but if I left the state before then, I could change the legal jurisdiction.
That was enough for me.
I packed in silence. Found a quiet rental three hours away. Told no one except my mom. My job was flexible—I’d already been part-time.
And just like that, I vanished.
For a while, there was peace.
Until someone showed Ursula a screenshot of my pregnancy post.
She didn’t come to my home this time.
She came to my work.
I work at a learning center. Toddlers. Tiny chairs. Finger paints and nap times.
Ursula showed up, screaming like a banshee. She slashed my tires. Smashed my car window. Shattered classroom windows.
“YOU STOLE MY LIFE, NIKKI!” she shrieked.
Over. And over. Again.
The staff evacuated the kids. Police showed up. She was arrested.
Criminal damage. Trespassing. Child endangerment.
I filed a restraining order the next morning. The judge looked at my belly and smiled.
“Good luck, missy,” he said. “My daughter’s due in two months. Can’t wait to be a grandpa!”
Then I filed one against Stan, too.
Because when your ex encourages this level of delusion, you don’t take chances.
After that, I left again. Far away. Across the country. To stay with my mom and start fresh.
They tried to contact me again. Fake accounts. Emails. Messages.
But this time, I had legal proof. I pressed charges again.
New restraining orders. New beginnings.
Now?
Now it’s quiet.
The air smells like lemon soap and brownies. No more midnight messages. No more fake smiles.
Just me. And the tiny kicks under my ribs.
Two little lives. Growing. Safe.
Mine.
I remember everything I walked away from. And how Stan had walked away from me first.
The babies will be here soon. I haven’t picked names yet. But they’ll have my last name.
And that’s what matters most.
