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 thought she was giving us a miracle.
I had no idea she would end up taking almost everything instead.
My name is Sarah. I’m 30 years old, American. I was married to Greg, 32.
For three straight years, our lives revolved around one thing.
Trying to have a baby.
And losing it.
Pregnancy tests lined up on the bathroom counter. Blood draws. Ultrasound rooms that smelled like sanitizer and heartbreak.
Three pregnancies.
Three miscarriages.
Each one stole a little more hope from us.
After the third loss, we stopped saying baby names out loud. It felt dangerous, like if we spoke them, the universe would hear and take them away too.
That’s when Lisa entered our lives.
My doctor finally sat me down one afternoon. She folded her hands and spoke gently, like someone delivering bad news wrapped in kindness.
“Your embryos are healthy,” she said. “Your body is just… tired. Surrogacy is an option.”
Greg squeezed my hand hard.
“We’ll do it,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”
That’s how Lisa came in.
She was 24. Bright-eyed. Friendly. Warm. She smiled easily and talked about how she’d always wanted to “help a couple become parents.”
I wanted to believe her so badly.
We did everything by the book. Contracts. Lawyers. Counseling sessions. Medical clearances. Psychological evaluations.
I cried into Greg’s shirt in the clinic parking lot after signing the papers.
The contract was crystal clear. Lisa was a gestational carrier. The baby would be genetically mine and Greg’s. Legally mine.
I read that sentence over and over again.
Ten times. Maybe more.
The embryo transfer worked.
Two weeks later, the blood test came back positive.
I sobbed into Greg’s shirt in the clinic parking lot again, while he held me and kept whispering,
“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 pictures 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 flicker on the screen and whispered,
“Stay. Please stay.”
Around eight months, things started to feel… wrong.
Texts slowed down. Replies came hours later. Sometimes not at all.
I tried to stay calm.
“She’s probably exhausted,” Greg said. “Third trimester. Totally normal.”
I wanted 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 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 sent the money.
Then came another “emergency.”
Then another.
Each time, my stomach twisted into knots.
Each 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, far too cheerful. “Big update!”
My entire body went cold.
Something about 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 casually. “Spent it. Wedding’s booked.”
Everything inside me went numb.
“What do you mean spent it?” I whispered. “That was surrogacy money. That was for the baby.”
“Yep,” she said, like we were talking about brunch plans. “And the baby? You’ll see.”
She hung up.
Just like that.
I stared at my phone, waiting for reality to reload.
It didn’t.
I called her back. Straight to voicemail.
My 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 you spent the money. She says you have a wedding booked.”
Silence.
“Tell me she’s lying,” I said. “Greg, tell me she’s lying.”
More silence.
My heart pounded in my ears.
“Is she lying?” I demanded.
He exhaled slowly.
“Sarah… I didn’t mean for—”
“Answer the question,” I snapped. “Is she lying?”
Silence again.
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 so stressed, and she was there, and we connected—”
I laughed. It sounded broken and ugly.
“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 stood in the empty nursery and thought about burning the house down.
Then something shifted.
Anger.
“I want my child.”
I called the surrogacy agency.
“We can’t reach her either,” the coordinator said, panicked. “This is completely against protocol.”
“That’s cute,” I replied. “But I want my child.”
I hired a lawyer. Late 50s. Serious. Calm. The kind of man who had seen everything.
I handed him everything.
The contract. Emails. Screenshots. Bank transfers.
He read quietly.
Finally, he looked up.
“Legally,” he said, “this child is yours.”
“But she moved out of state with him,” I said. “They have my baby.”
“That complicates logistics,” he said. “Not the law.”
Weeks later, a 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.”
My son wore a onesie that read: Mommy’s Boy.
I forwarded everything to my lawyer.
“This helps,” he replied. “We’ll use it in court.”
But court was days away.
Their wedding was in three.
So I booked a ticket.
I pulled out a dress I hadn’t worn since before miscarriages swallowed my life. Did my hair. Put on red lipstick.
Not for Greg.
For me.
The venue was a rustic barn, fairy lights everywhere.
I slipped inside unnoticed and sat in the back.
I watched Lisa walk down the aisle.
A bridesmaid carried my baby.
At the reception, I waited.
When speeches started, I walked forward.
“Hi,” I said calmly.
Greg turned pale.
“Sarah?”
I placed a wrapped box on the table.
“Wedding gift.”
Inside: a USB drive. Contracts. Bank transfers. Text messages.
On top, in bold letters:
SURROGACY FRAUD & EVIDENCE
Lisa went white.
Guests murmured.
“You used baby money for this wedding?” someone asked.
Then the doors opened.
Police. Child services.
“This child legally belongs to Sarah Reynolds,” the worker said.
Lisa screamed. Greg said nothing.
I walked to my baby.
“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s Mom.”
He fit perfectly in my arms.
That night, I left with my son.
People say what I did was dramatic.
But I’d already done quiet.
Quiet miscarriages.
Quiet tears.
Quiet betrayal.
The box on that table wasn’t just 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.