We shared a tiny classroom in the quiet village of Ashford, growing up side by side in old terraced houses with creaky floorboards and ivy-covered fences. We were never best friends, but we knew each other through and through—classmates, neighbors, almost family.
After graduation, life took us down very different roads. I moved to Bristol to study law, while Sarah headed to Manchester to train as an interior designer. Different cities, different paths—years went by without so much as a hello, like we’d been erased from each other’s lives.
Then one day, fate brought us face to face again—in the antiseptic-smelling corridor of a maternity clinic.
I was there for a routine check-up, six months along, expecting a boy. Sarah was six months along too—but her visit was for a very different reason. She was planning to terminate.
My stomach dropped.
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked, voice shaking. “This is your daughter.”
She didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a husband, a stable life. I’ve got chaos. My partner’s a drunk, doesn’t earn a penny—I’m filing for divorce. What am I supposed to do with a child? End up on the streets?”
Thankfully, the doctor refused to go through with it—she was too far along.
We both tried to talk her out of it, but Sarah stayed cold and unmoved. Then she exploded, bitterness rising like a tide.
“Why do you even care?” she snapped. “If you’re so worried, take her yourself—I’m giving her up anyway.”
And just like that, the words left my mouth.
“Fine. Carry her safely, and once she’s born, we’ll handle the paperwork.”
Sarah froze, caught off guard. “You’re serious?” she whispered.
“Sleep on it. Call me tomorrow… If you take her, I’ll only thank you.”
We exchanged numbers and parted like soldiers after a long battle.
That night, I told my husband, James. He stared at me like I’d lost my mind. But I stood firm—argued, pleaded, promised we could love a child that wasn’t ours by blood. Eventually, he gave in—put his faith in me.
The next morning, I called Sarah and said yes.
I offered to help, but she refused. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll carry her. When it’s done, she’s yours.”
What followed was a legal maze. No surrogacy agreement, just a mess of loopholes and late-night phone calls. We leaned on every favor we had, even greased a few palms to make sure the adoption paperwork would be ready before the baby was born.
James got swept up in it too.
He redid the nursery for two, hunted for double strollers and matching cribs.
Still, we didn’t dare buy anything too early—afraid we’d jinx it, afraid she’d change her mind.
Even our doctor warned me, “She might keep the baby after birth. Be ready.”
The thought haunted me.
Sarah finalized her divorce just before delivery. Her ex, thrilled at dodging child support, practically danced his way out of court.
I gave birth first—our son, healthy and strong.
Sarah delivered four days later. She didn’t even look at her baby girl.
By morning, she was gone—left the hospital, paperwork signed and sitting neatly on the matron’s desk.
I stayed another week, doctors checking on both my son and my new daughter.
Both were healthy. Both were mine.
And just like that, we went home—me, and my two children.