When I married Arthur, I thought I’d hit the jackpot — a loving husband and a mother-in-law, Linda, who felt like a second mom. She was warm, attentive, and kind, never the overbearing type. I never imagined that same woman would one day refuse to let me take the child she carried as our surrogate.
After years of IVF failures, Linda surprised us by offering to carry our baby. She was healthy, eager, and insisted it was a gift — no payment needed. The embryo implanted successfully, and for months, everything seemed perfect. She updated me on every kick, craving, and appointment. But by the seventh month, her behavior shifted. She began referring to the baby as “my baby,” filled out hospital forms listing herself as mother, and made offhand comments that unsettled me.
When our son Neil was born, Linda clutched him and declared, “You’re not taking him.” Arthur tried reasoning with her, but she refused, insisting her bond as the birth mother made him hers. Hospital staff intervened, and after hours, the baby was handed to us, with the proper paperwork confirming our parental rights.
Yet the nightmare continued. At 2 a.m., Linda called, accusing us of trickery. Within a week, she filed for custody, claiming emotional manipulation. Her family backed her, and we lived in fear of losing Neil.
In court, our lawyer presented DNA evidence, signed surrogacy documents, counseling records, and texts proving Linda understood her role. The judge ruled decisively: Neil was legally and biologically ours.
Outside the courtroom, Linda warned us Neil would one day know she carried him. Arthur replied calmly: “We’ll tell him the truth — that his grandmother helped bring him into this world, then tried to take him away.”
To end the tension, we paid Linda what we would have offered a professional surrogate. She accepted quietly. We moved away, changed our numbers, and began anew.
Now, our family is just the three of us. Surrogacy brought a miracle, but also a reminder: love can create life — and sometimes, heartbreak.
