I used to think love alone built a family. That changed the day I became a surrogate for my sister, Rachel, and learned just how fragile love can be when expectations collide with reality.
Rachel and I were inseparable growing up — secrets, dreams, even hopes of raising our children side by side. But heartbreak struck. Multiple miscarriages left her devastated, withdrawing from family gatherings, from my boys — Jack, ten; Michael, eight; Tommy, seven; and little David, four. Joy seemed unbearable to her.
During Tommy’s birthday party, I saw her staring out the window, frozen. “I always thought our kids would grow up together,” she whispered. “Six rounds of IVF… the doctor says I can’t try again.”
Then Jason, her husband, suggested surrogacy — and that I, her biological sister, would be ideal. That night, my husband and I discussed it at length. “It’s not easy,” Luke said. But I knew this was my chance to give Rachel hope.
Pregnancy brought her back to life. She attended every appointment, painted the nursery, and spent hours talking to my belly. My boys called it “Aunt Rachel’s baby,” and our home was filled with laughter again.
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