I Became a Surrogate for My Brother When He Came to the Hospital for His Newborn Daughter He Looked at Her and Said I Cant Take This Baby Home

“That isn’t what I thought.”

“Then what did you think? Because from where I was sitting, you looked at your own baby that you’d asked me to be a surrogate for and decided she wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Ryan sat down on one of my kitchen stools, and something in his shoulders gave way. I watched my twin brother, the man who had driven me home after Gabriel’s father abandoned us five years ago and told me we’d be okay, fold in half in front of me.

“That isn’t what I thought.”

“I lost my job, Ivy.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“Four months ago. Right after the second trimester scan.”

The clock over the stove ticked. I could hear it.

“Melissa doesn’t know.”

“Ryan.”

“I put on a shirt and tie every morning. I sit in the coffee shop until five. I send resumes. I’ve had two interviews in four months, and neither called back.”

I stared at him.

“The nursery,” I said slowly.

“Credit cards. Three of them. She thinks the crib came from our savings. There are no savings, Ivy. There haven’t been for weeks.”

I sat down too, because my legs stopped working.

“So when the doctor said surgeries,” I whispered.

“I saw a bill I couldn’t pay on top of bills she doesn’t even know exist.”

“There are no savings.”

Ryan took a breath.

“And when I saw the diagnosis, I knew I could use it. Melissa will grieve, but she won’t ever know I already failed her.”

“You were going to let her think you rejected your own child because of her condition? Just to protect your pride?”

“To protect her from me.”

“That’s the same thing, Ryan.”

He put his face in his hands, and I sat across from my brother.

“I knew I could use it.”

I hated him. I loved him. But I didn’t know which was louder.

“All those appointments,” I said. “You were on your phone. Checking, checking. I thought you were nervous.”

“I was applying for jobs in the waiting room.”

“Good God, Ryan.”

“I know.”

Hope made a small sound in the bassinet, that soft newborn noise that isn’t quite crying yet. Neither of us moved.

“You were on your phone.”

“You used a baby as an exit,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I used my daughter as an exit because I was drowning and I couldn’t tell my wife.”

I let that sit in the air between us. I let it be as ugly as it was.