When Khal agreed to become a surrogate, she believed she was making a sacrifice for love. For family. For stability.
What she didn’t realize—at least not at first—was that she was renting her body, piece by piece, to solve a problem that was never hers to begin with.
I didn’t know I was being used until the check cleared.
And even then, I told myself it was love.
Because that’s how deeply the lie had rooted itself inside me.
Hicks never forced me. He never raised his voice or issued ultimatums. He just held my hand while I signed the surrogacy papers. He kissed my knuckles and told me we were doing this together. For us. For our son.
What he didn’t say—what I wasn’t allowed to see clearly at the time—was that I was doing it for his mother. For the debts she created. For the consequences she never learned to carry herself.
By the time the truth surfaced, I had carried two children that weren’t mine, and lost the one man who was.
When Hicks and I married, people said we were solid. College sweethearts. Sensible. Stable. I was finishing my nursing degree; he had just started his MBA. By our mid-thirties, we had a bright, curious five-year-old named Nux, a modest apartment, and a marriage that looked functional—healthy, even—from the outside.
For a while, it felt that way too.
Until my mother-in-law started calling every night.
Hicks said Burke was struggling after his father passed. Grief, he told me, makes people spiral. I wanted to be compassionate. I wanted to be patient. But her “rough patch” became our entire life.
Every spare dollar vanished into a house she couldn’t afford. Every canceled vacation, every quiet birthday, every time Nux asked why we couldn’t go to the zoo again—it all traced back to her debts.
And I stayed quiet. Because love teaches you to swallow discomfort.
Until it doesn’t.
One night, while I folded laundry on the couch, Hicks stood watching me. Too calmly. The way people do when they’ve already rehearsed the conversation in their head.
“I was talking to Mike at work,” he said casually. “His cousin was a surrogate. Made about sixty grand. Just like that.”
I kept folding Nux’s tiny jeans.
“And?”
“Khal… if you did something like that, we could finally pay off Mom’s mortgage. Be done with it. No more panic. No more juggling. We could finally start fresh. Do it for us. For Nux.”
My stomach tightened.
“You’re asking me to carry someone else’s baby.”
“Why not?” he said quickly. “You had a perfect pregnancy. No complications. It’s just nine months. One year, tops. And you’d be helping a family who can’t have children.”
He always said us like it meant we. Like the cost would be shared.
“You mean I’d sacrifice my body,” I said slowly, “and we’d both benefit.”
He smiled. The smile of someone who already believed they’d won.
“Just think about it.”
So I did.
And I said yes.
The first pregnancy was surreal. Like stepping outside my own life. The intended parents were kind, respectful, deeply grateful. They treated me like a human being, not a container.
Hicks played the role of supportive husband. Smoothies. Foot rubs. Reassurances whispered in the dark.
“We’re doing something good,” he’d say. “Something that matters.”
When the baby was born and I watched his mother cry with joy, I felt something close to pride. I had done something difficult—and walked away with dignity.
Or so I thought.
Three months later, Hicks slid a spreadsheet across the counter like it was a gift.
“One more time,” he said. “Just once. Then Mom’s completely free.”
My body hadn’t healed. My mind hadn’t healed.
But he framed it as opportunity. As closure. As love.
That night, I stared at the ceiling while my body throbbed with quiet warnings.
And I said yes again.
The second pregnancy broke me.
The weight. The exhaustion. The way Hicks slowly removed himself—sleeping in the guest room, sighing when I asked for help, acting irritated by the inconvenience I had agreed to.
“You said you were okay with this,” he snapped once, when I needed help getting out of the tub.
And I realized then that my consent had become a weapon against me.
When the second baby was born, I handed her to her mother and turned away before I could fall apart.
The payment cleared.
Mom’s house was paid off.
And a month later, Hicks left.
“You’ve changed,” he said. “I’m not attracted to you anymore.”
I had given him everything. Twice.
And he walked out like I was the problem.
The weeks after were hollow. I avoided mirrors. My body felt like evidence—of sacrifice, of betrayal. I didn’t just feel abandoned.
I felt used.
But I had Nux. And that mattered more than my grief.
I rebuilt slowly. Therapy. Writing. Work at a women’s health clinic where I helped others feel seen while I learned to see myself again.
Then the truth about Hicks unraveled. His job. His reputation. His new girlfriend. His quiet move back into his mother’s house.
I felt no triumph.
Only relief.
Healing didn’t arrive all at once. It came in walks. In nourishment. In learning that my body was not something I owed to anyone.
When the mother of the second baby called and offered care—not payment, but gratitude—I finally let myself receive.
I began writing online. Not to accuse. Not to shame.
But to tell the truth.
About love that disguises itself as obligation.
About devotion that becomes extraction.
About what it costs women to keep families afloat.
The community grew.
And so did I.
Today, Nux and I live in a home filled with light. I lead a support group for women learning to reclaim their bodies, their boundaries, and their futures.
I don’t regret what I gave.
But I will never again confuse sacrifice with love.
Because love never sends an invoice to your body—and calls it devotion.
