After three miscarriages, my husband and I turned to surrogacy. We found a woman named Lisa, someone who promised to help us build the family we had been fighting for. I believed her. I trusted her.
I had no idea she would take far more than she ever gave.
My name is Sarah. I was 30 years old, American, married to Greg, who was 32. For three long years, our entire life revolved around trying to have a baby—and losing it.
Pregnancy tests lined up on the bathroom counter. Blood draws at dawn. Doctor appointments that ended in silence. And then three miscarriages.
Three.
Each one took something from me.
After a while, we stopped saying baby names out loud. It felt like tempting fate. Like if we loved the idea too much, it would be taken from us again.
That was when Lisa entered our lives.
My doctor finally sat me down one afternoon, her voice gentle but firm.
“Your embryos are healthy,” she said. “Your body is just… tired. Surrogacy is an option.”
I stared at her, stunned.
Greg squeezed my hand and said without hesitation, “We’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”
That was how Lisa came into the picture.
She was 24 years old. Bright-eyed. Warm smile. Soft voice. She told us she had always wanted to “help a couple become parents.”
She sounded like an angel.
We did everything right. Every step. Contracts. Lawyers. Counseling. Medical clearances. Background checks. Psychological evaluations.
In the clinic parking lot, after signing the papers, I sobbed into Greg’s shirt.
The contract was very clear. Lisa was a gestational carrier. The baby would be genetically mine and Greg’s. Legally mine.
I read that sentence 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, while he kept whispering, “We’re going to be parents. We’re really going to be parents.”
At first, Lisa was perfect.
We went to ultrasounds together. She sent me photos of her growing belly.
“Little bean is doing great, Mama,” she texted.
She called me “Mama.” She called Greg “Dad.”
I watched my son’s heartbeat on the screen and whispered, “Stay. Please stay.”
Everything felt fragile but hopeful.
Around eight months in, something changed.
Her texts slowed down. Then stopped.
Calls went straight to voicemail.
Greg tried to calm me. “She’s exhausted. Third trimester stuff. Totally normal.”
I tried to believe him.
Then the money requests started.
“Insurance is being weird about some tests,” Lisa texted. “Can you send an advance? I’ll keep all receipts.”
I checked the contract. Medical expenses were already covered. I showed Greg.
He waved it off. “It’s our baby. We’re not going to nickel-and-dime her.”
So I wired the money.
Then another “emergency.”
Then another.
Every time, I felt a sick twist in my stomach.
Every time, Greg said, “She’s carrying our child, Sarah. Be kind.”
Then one afternoon, my phone rang.
Caller ID: Lisa.
I smiled and answered. “Hey! How are you feel—”
“Hi, Sarah!” she cut in, overly cheerful. “Big update!”
My blood ran cold.
Something in her voice made my skin crawl.
“What kind of update?” I asked.
“I’m part of this family permanently now,” she said. “Greg and I are together.”
My brain froze. “I’m sorry… what?”
“Oh, and the money you wired?” she added lightly. “Spent it. Wedding’s booked.”
I whispered, “What do you mean, spent it? That was surrogacy money. That was for the baby.”
“Yep,” she said, like we were chatting about brunch. “And the baby? You’ll see.”
Then she hung up.
Just like that.
I stared at my phone, waiting for reality to fix itself.
It didn’t.
I called her back. Voicemail.
Hands shaking, I called Greg.
“Hey, babe,” he said.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At work. Why?”
“Lisa just called,” I said. “She said you’re together. She said you spent the money. She said you have a wedding booked.”
Silence.
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said.
More silence.
“Greg,” I whispered. “Tell me she’s lying.”
He exhaled. “Sarah, I… I didn’t mean for—”
“Is she lying?” I snapped.
Silence.
“What about the baby?” I asked.
That silence was my answer.
“You’re cheating on me,” I said quietly. “With our surrogate.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. “You were stressed. She was there. We connected—”
I laughed, a broken, ugly sound.
“She was there because she was carrying our baby,” I said. “That was literally her job.”
The next days were a blur.
I cried. I screamed into pillows. I stared at the empty nursery and wanted to destroy everything.
Then something hardened inside me.
“I want my child.”
I called the surrogacy agency.
“We can’t reach her either,” the coordinator said, panicking. “This is completely against protocol.”
“That’s nice,” I said flatly. “But I want my child.”
I hired a lawyer. Late 50s. Calm. Sharp. Specialized in surrogacy law.
He flipped through the paperwork, silent.
Finally he looked up.
“Legally, this child is yours,” he said. “Not Lisa’s. Not Greg’s. Yours.”
“But they moved out of state,” I said. “They have my baby.”
“That complicates logistics,” he replied. “Not the law.”
Weeks passed.
Then one night at 2 a.m., my friend sent me a screenshot.
“Is this her?”
It was Lisa, in a robe, holding my baby.
Caption: “Tomorrow I marry my best friend and celebrate our little family.”
My stomach turned.
The onesie said: Mommy’s Boy.
I sent everything to my lawyer.
“This helps,” he replied. “We’ll use it in court.”
Their wedding was in three days.
I booked a ticket.
I chose a dress from before miscarriages ruled my life. Did my hair. Put on red lipstick.
Not for Greg.
For armor.
The venue was a rustic barn with fairy lights.
I slipped inside unnoticed.
I watched my baby carried down the aisle.
I tasted bile.
At the reception, I waited.
When speeches started, I stepped forward.
“Hi,” I said.
Greg turned pale.
I placed a box on the table.
“Wedding gift.”
Inside: evidence.
SURROGACY FRAUD & EVIDENCE.
The room went silent.
Then the doors opened.
Police. Child services.
“Ms. Sarah Reynolds?” the worker asked.
“That’s my son,” I said.
Lisa screamed. “He’s mine!”
“He’s not,” the worker said calmly.
I lifted my son into my arms.
He fit perfectly.
At the station, the judge signed emergency custody.
“You’re safe now,” I whispered to my son.
People say what I did was dramatic.
But I’d already done quiet.
Quiet miscarriages.
Quiet tears.
Quiet betrayal.
That box wasn’t just a gift.
It was a reminder.
You can steal a husband.
But you cannot steal a child from their mother—and expect her to stay silent.