This Wasn’t Co-Parenting. It Was Control. And I Was Done Playing Nice.
When I agreed to co-parent with my ex, I thought it would be hard—but manageable. I never expected to be treated like a surrogate by his new girlfriend. But that’s exactly what happened.
And I’ll tell you everything.
When Stan broke up with me, it wasn’t some loud fight or a crying mess. It was just a cold little conversation at a coffee shop. He looked sorry, but distant—like his mind had already packed and left.
“I’ve been talking to Ursula again,” he said, staring at the table. “I think we’ve got unfinished business, Nikki. And to be honest, I just want to make sure that she’s not the one who got away.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I gave the waiter a soft smile when he brought my baked cheesecake and said calmly, “You have to see this through. Not a problem.”
Stan looked confused. “Aren’t you… upset?”
I sighed, kept my voice light. “I am a bit sad. But let’s face it, Stan. We’ve only been together for three months and I’m not Ursula. So, we owe it to ourselves to see what the world has to offer.”
He nodded. Asked for the check.
That was it. A neat little ending.
I told myself to move on. Just three months—we weren’t soulmates. I could get over it.
And I almost did.
Until I found out I was pregnant.
With twins.
I stared at the test. Then the second one. Then the third.
My stomach turned. My head spun. Twins. Twins.
I picked up my phone and called Stan. My voice shook as I told him.
There was silence on the other end.
Then laughter. Loud, choked laughter.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Twins?! Nikki! This is… this is incredible!”
I blinked. “You’re actually happy about this?”
“Yes!” he said, like it was the best thing he’d ever heard. “I am! These are two innocent babies who deserve the entire world!”
And just like that, he was in.
Apparently, Ursula had fertility issues. And Stan? He’d always dreamed of being a dad.
Getting back together wasn’t on the table, he said, but he wanted to be involved.
And Ursula?
She said she “just wanted to support the process.”
I didn’t know “support” meant taking over.
Ursula insisted on meeting. She and Stan showed up at my apartment like they were real estate agents checking out a house. Eyes scanning everything, making mental notes. She didn’t even sit down before dropping her demands.
“We want a home birth,” she started, arms crossed like we were signing a contract. “Formula feeding only, Nikki. That way we can split custody from day one, you understand? And the babies will call me Mama. You’ll be Mommy. It’ll help avoid any confusion in the long run.”
I stared at her. My brain paused like it needed a second to catch up.
Stan sat beside her, casually eating the brownies I’d made at midnight because of pregnancy cravings. He looked at the floor every time Ursula spoke, like he was trying to vanish.
He didn’t stop her.
He didn’t even try.
“You’re not serious,” I said, my voice dry, flat. But inside I was screaming.
Ursula gave me a fake little smile. “It’s important to co-parent with intention.”
Like she was reading from a mommy blog.
I stood up. Calmly. My legs felt like jelly, but I didn’t let it show. I walked to the door, opened it, and waited.
They got up slowly. Stan looked at me once—but I didn’t meet his eyes.
They left.
But her perfume stayed. That sickly-sweet vanilla-amber smell that gave me a headache lingered long after the door shut.
I leaned back against the door and let out the breath I’d been holding since they arrived.
That’s when I knew.
This wasn’t going to be a shared experience. This was going to be war.
Ursula started texting me every single day.
“Are you walking enough?”
“You shouldn’t eat tuna.”
“Get acupuncture instead of yoga.”
She sent name suggestions, nursery themes, color palettes.
And then: “It’s so unfair, Nikki. I get it, you’re carrying the twins. But it’s exhausting. I’m exhausted from the planning.”
Planning?
I stopped replying.
Then she scheduled a genetics appointment behind my back. It was a family history consultation.
I expected Stan to show up.
Instead, Ursula walked in. Without him.
She tried to give her family history. As if she were the one carrying the twins.
The genetic counselor had to redirect her twice.
Then came the 20-week scan. I was allowed one guest.
Stan asked if Ursula could go instead.
I said no.
“She’s really invested in this, Nikki,” he said, sheepish.
“I don’t care how invested she is, Stan,” I snapped. “This isn’t a group project. I’m growing two humans, not assembling a damn IKEA bunk bed.”
Things got worse after I posted a quiet photo of my baby bump. Just me, glowing, peaceful.
Hours later, Ursula posted an over-the-top glittery Instagram reel:
“Expecting twins! The non-traditional way. I’m feeling so blessed!”
There were balloons. Pink and blue. I didn’t even know the genders yet.
Then she threw a baby shower.
And I wasn’t invited.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for what happened next.
It was late March. I was 24 weeks along. My ankles were swollen, and I was folding baby onesies on the couch.
That’s when I heard the knock.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Not polite. Not friendly. Not normal.
I opened the door—and felt my stomach twist.
It was Julie. Ursula’s mother. Dressed like she was going hiking. Standing beside Ursula, who had her usual glam look and a coffee cup in hand.
“No text? No call?” I said, arms over my belly.
“This won’t take long,” Ursula said, brushing past Julie like she was about to pitch a business idea.
Julie smiled like we were long-lost sorority sisters.
“We’ve been talking,” she said, “And… we think it makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” I asked, instantly suspicious.
“For you to give one of the babies to Ursula,” she said.
I blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?! Are you crazy?!”
“You already have two. It’s only fair,” Ursula said like she was bored of explaining.
Fair.
Like babies were poker chips.
I felt this weird calm wash over me.
“Oh, you want one of the babies? Okay, I can agree,” I said sweetly.
They froze. Julie smiled. Ursula leaned forward.
“What do you want?” she asked.
I tilted my head.
“I want you to officially sign up as a surrogate,” I said. “For my future dog.”
Ursula blinked. “What?”
“You know. Carry it for nine months. Natural birth. No epidural. Breastfeed it, too. That’s only fair, right? Life for a life?”
Julie gasped like I’d slapped her.
Ursula’s face twisted. “Are you insane?! Do you really think you’re fit to be a mother if you say things like that?!”
“Exactly,” I said, stepping forward just enough to make them flinch. “Because a child isn’t a pet. Or a handbag. Or some kind of prize.”
I took a deep breath.
“They’re my children. And you, Ursula, are nothing to them but their father’s girlfriend.”
Dead silence.
“If either of you shows up here again uninvited, I’ll have a restraining order so fast your ‘non-traditional family’ won’t know what hit it.”
I smiled. Cold. Sharp.
“Have a nice day, ladies.”
I shut the door and locked it.
“Jeez, babies,” I said to my bump. “Your dad’s got us in deep trouble.”
Then I texted Stan:
“Your girlfriend and her mother just came to my house to demand one of my twins. If I see either of them again, I’m getting a lawyer and full custody. You’ll get supervised visits only, Stan. Think carefully about who you tie your life to.”
He didn’t reply.
The next day, I went to see a lawyer. They said custody couldn’t be filed until the babies were born—but if I left the state before then, the new state would be their legal home.
That was all I needed to hear.
I packed in silence. Found a rental three hours away. I didn’t give a forwarding address—just told my mom.
No calls. No visits. Just peace.
For a while, it worked.
Until someone sent Ursula a screenshot of my original baby bump post. The one where I shared my story.
And she showed up at my job.
I work at a learning center for toddlers. Bright walls. Play mats. Snack schedules.
Ursula slashed my tires, shattered my car window, and screamed like a banshee outside.
“You stole my life, Nikki!”
Children had to be evacuated.
The police arrested her on the spot. The charges?
Criminal damage. Trespassing. Child endangerment.
The next day, I got a protective order.
The judge smiled at my stomach and said, “Good luck, missy. I’m going to be a grandfather soon, too. I can’t wait!”
Then I filed one against Stan. Because when you let someone else treat your pregnant ex like a rental oven, you don’t deserve trust.
I moved again—this time, across the country.
Stan and Ursula tried to contact me again. Emails. Fake accounts. I kept the evidence. Pressed charges. Got new restraining orders.
Now, I live in a quiet place.
No knocking. No threats. No fake “support.”
Just me. And the gentle kicks under my ribs.
They’re real. They’re mine.
I don’t have names picked yet. But they’ll carry my last name.
And that’s the most important part.
Because I remember how Stan left. And how I walked away stronger.
And I’ll never let anyone take that from me again.
