When I agreed to co-parent with my ex, I thought I was being mature. Grown-up. Responsible. I never imagined I’d end up feeling like a rented womb for his new girlfriend. But that’s exactly what happened. And let me tell you something—I’m done playing nice.
When Stan broke up with me, it wasn’t messy. There were no big fights or dramatic crying in the rain. We were sitting in a quiet coffee shop. I still remember the smell of cinnamon muffins and espresso in the air. Stan gave me one of his typical half-hearted smiles and said,
“I’ve been talking to Ursula again. I think we’ve got unfinished business, Nikki. And to be honest, I just want to make sure she’s not the one who got away.”
I looked at him, not even surprised. Just… tired.
“I get it,” I replied calmly, smiling at the waiter as he brought over my slice of baked cheesecake. “You have to see this through. Not a problem.”
Stan blinked, looking confused.
“Aren’t you… upset?”
I shrugged, “I’m a bit sad, but let’s face it, Stan. We’ve only been together for three months. And I’m not Ursula. We owe it to ourselves to see what the world has to offer.”
He nodded and asked for the check.
And that was that.
It did sting, of course. No one likes being the warm-up act. But I told myself to get over it.
And I almost did.
Until two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. With twins.
When I told Stan over the phone, there was silence. Then something I didn’t expect—he laughed. Not mockingly. It was this weird, breathless kind of laugh.
“Oh my God,” he gasped. “Twins?! Nikki! This is… this is incredible.”
“You’re actually happy about this?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes!” he cried. “I am! These are two innocent babies who deserve the entire world!”
Apparently, Ursula couldn’t have kids. Fertility issues. And Stan? He’d always wanted a family.
He made it clear—getting back together wasn’t happening. But he wanted to be involved. And Ursula?
“She just wants to support the process,” he said.
But her idea of “support” turned out to be something entirely different.
The first sign of trouble came when they visited my apartment. They didn’t come like people excited to be part of a child’s life. They came like real estate agents checking out a house they wanted to flip.
Ursula didn’t even sit down before launching into her list.
“We want a home birth,” she started, like we were negotiating a business deal. “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, not even blinking. I wasn’t shocked. I was offended by the audacity.
Stan just sat beside her, quietly sipping coffee and eating the brownies I’d baked at midnight because my cravings wouldn’t let me sleep. He didn’t say a word in my defense. Not one.
I realized right then—he wasn’t going to stop her. Not ever.
“You’re not serious,” I said, trying to hold back a laugh. My voice came out flat.
Ursula smiled that tight, fake, TV-smile.
“It’s important to co-parent with intention,” she said, like she’d memorized it off some Pinterest board.
I stood up. Quietly. Slowly. My knees were shaking, but I didn’t let it show. I walked over to the door and opened it.
Silence.
They left, but her perfume—vanilla mixed with migraine—stayed in my home like a ghost.
And in that silence, I knew.
This wasn’t going to be a shared journey.
This was going to be war.
After that visit, Ursula started texting me. Every. Single. Day.
“Are you walking enough?”
“Please skip yoga, it’s not safe. You should do prenatal acupuncture instead.”
“You really should avoid certain fish. Mercury, Nikki. Mercury!”
She sent me baby name ideas, nursery themes, and even messages complaining about her own life.
“It’s so unfair, Nikki. I know you’re carrying the twins, but I’m exhausted. All this planning is just… draining.”
Eventually, I stopped replying. But that didn’t stop her.
One day, I got an appointment notification from a genetics clinic I hadn’t even agreed to. Ursula had booked it without telling me. It was supposed to be a consultation about family medical history.
Stan didn’t show up.
Ursula did.
She tried to answer questions about her family history—like she was the one pregnant. The counselor gently redirected her. Twice.
By the time I hit 20 weeks, I was allowed to bring only one guest to my scan. Stan called to ask if I could bring Ursula instead of him.
“She’s really invested in this, Nikki,” he said sheepishly. “I think she’s just excited to be a part of it.”
“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.”
Then I posted a sweet baby bump photo. Nothing flashy—just me, the sunshine, and this big, beautiful belly.
A few hours later, Ursula posted a sparkly Instagram reel:
“Expecting Twins! The non-traditional way. I’m feeling so blessed!”
There were blue and pink balloons. Baby bottles. I didn’t even know the genders yet.
And then… she announced her baby shower.
I wasn’t invited.
But that wasn’t the last straw.
It happened one afternoon in March. I was 24 weeks pregnant. Belly huge. Feet swollen. I was folding little onesies on my couch while watching a home makeover show.
Then there was a knock at the door.
A hard knock. The kind that says, “This house belongs to me now.”
I opened it and felt my stomach drop.
It was Julie. Ursula’s mother. Wearing a puffed vest and a cloud of perfume. And behind her—Ursula herself, sipping coffee like she was there for a book club.
“No text? No call?” I said, arms crossed over my belly.
“This won’t take long,” Ursula replied, brushing past her mom like a CEO entering a meeting.
Julie stepped forward with a sugary smile.
“We’ve been talking,” she said. “And… we think it makes sense.”
“What makes sense?”
Julie looked pleased with herself.
“For you to give one of the babies to Ursula.”
My jaw dropped.
“I’m sorry, WHAT? Are you crazy?”
“You already have two. It’s only fair,” Ursula sighed, like I was being unreasonable.
Fair.
Like babies were party favors.
And then something inside me snapped.
But not in a loud, screaming way. No.
It was quiet. Cold. Sharp.
I smiled.
“Oh, you want one of the babies? Okay, I can agree.”
They both blinked.
Julie looked thrilled. Ursula leaned in.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to officially sign up as a surrogate,” I said. “For my future dog.”
“What?” Ursula blinked.
“You know. Carry it for nine months. Natural birth. No epidural. Breastfeed it, too. Fair’s fair, right?”
Julie gasped.
Ursula snapped, “That’s not the same thing! Are you insane? Do you really think you’re fit to be a mother saying things like that?”
I looked her dead in the eyes.
“Exactly. It’s not the same. Because a child isn’t a handbag. Or a pet. Or a prize. They’re mine. And you, Ursula, are nothing to them except their father’s girlfriend.”
Silence.
I stepped closer. Just enough to make them flinch.
“If either of you come near me again, uninvited, I’ll have a restraining order faster than your ‘non-traditional family’ can post another reel.”
I smiled. Ice cold.
“Have a nice day, ladies.”
Then I shut the door and locked it.
I looked down at my belly and whispered, “Jeez, babies. Your dad sure knows how to pick ‘em.”
Then I sat down with a bowl of grapes and 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.”
No reply.
So I got a lawyer. They said custody would need to wait until after birth, but if I moved out of state before the babies were born, my new state would be the legal home.
That was all I needed to hear.
I packed. Quietly. Found a short-term rental three hours away. Told only my mom. And I left.
No calls to Stan. Just peace.
But then someone showed Ursula my baby bump post online.
She found my workplace.
I work at a toddler learning center. One day, she showed up, screaming like a banshee. Slashed my tires. Smashed my window. Broke several huge windows in the playroom.
“YOU STOLE MY LIFE, NIKKI!” she shrieked, over and over again.
We evacuated the kids. Called the police. She was arrested on the spot.
Criminal damage. Trespassing. Endangering children.
I filed a protective order the next morning. The judge didn’t even hesitate.
“Good luck, missy,” he said, smiling at my stomach. “I’m going to be a grandfather soon, too.”
I also filed one against Stan.
Then I moved again—with my mom. Across the country.
Fresh start.
Stan and Ursula tried to reach out. Emails. Fake Instagram accounts. More messages.
But with all that new evidence, I filed more charges. Got more restraining orders.
Sometimes I sit in my quiet, lemon-scented apartment, folding baby clothes, and wonder if I dreamed it all.
But then I feel the little kicks.
They’re real.
These two beautiful, strong, kicking miracles? They’re mine.
No confusion. No fake moms. No Instagram lies.
Just me. And them.
And that’s more than enough.
