Off The Record

My Husband Talked Me Into Being A Surrogate Twice—Then He Paid Off His Mom’s Debt And Walked Out On Me

Published on October 23, 2025

Melissa thinks it’s a love sacrifice when she consents to serve as a surrogate for her husband’s suffering mother. But as the distinction between exploitation and devotion becomes more hazy, she must face a terrible betrayal and learn what it really means to take back her destiny.

It was not until the check cleared that I realized I was selling my body. I told myself it was love even then. Because the untruth went that deep.

Ethan, my spouse, didn’t put a pistol to my head. He just assured me that we were doing it for ourselves and held my hand as I completed the surrogacy paperwork. For our son.

However, I was unaware that we were doing it for his mother, who was drowning in debt that she had caused.

I had lost all that was mine and carried two babies that weren’t mine by the time I recognized I had been used.

Even him.

People said that Ethan and I had it all figured out when we got married. He was beginning his MBA, and I was finishing my nursing degree when we first met in college. By our mid-thirties, we had a little apartment, a bright five-year-old boy named Jacob, and an apparently solid marriage.

And it felt powerful. That is, until my mother-in-law began making nightly calls.

She was simply “going through a rough patch” following the death of his father, according to Ethan. However, her difficult time turned into our drowning season. And every extra money vanished into a home that was beyond of her price range. She was the reason for every postponed trip, silent birthday, and “maybe next year” for our son.

And I said nothing. Because you are asked to keep your mouth shut by love. Until it doesn’t.

I didn’t argue with Ethan about it. His mother was Marlene. I also knew what loyalty was. However, I began to question whether we were still living our lives or hers after years of missing out.

Then one evening, my husband entered the room while I was folding laundry on the couch. For a moment, he watched me from there. His expression was serene, almost too serene, as it becomes when he has been mentally practicing something.

He started off by saying, “I was talking to Mike at work,” as if it were a casual conversation. “And he mentioned that his cousin, Sharon, was a surrogate. She made about $60,000. Just like that. She just carried the baby and gave birth. That was it.”

As I continued to fold Jacob’s small jeans, I said, “Okay… and?” I wasn’t even certain that I had heard him right.

“Mel, if you did something like that, we could finally pay off Mom’s mortgage. We’d be done! There would be no more monthly panic sessions. We could finally move and start a fresh chapter. Do it for us. Do it for Jacob.”

I said, “Ethan,” with my stomach already in knots. “You’re not actually suggesting I carry someone else’s baby, are you?”

“Why not?” he inquired. “You’ve had a healthy and easy pregnancy with Jacob. There were no complications at all. And think about it, Mel — it’s just nine months. One year of sacrifice, tops. And it would change everything for us. And… think about that family that desperately wants a child but cannot do it themselves.”

Every time he said “us,” he meant “we.” As if I were being invited into an equal position. But something changed in that instant. I looked at my husband as my hands hesitated over a pair of socks.

“You mean, I’d do all the sacrificing, Ethan. And we’d both enjoy the reward?”

He remarked, “Don’t be hasty, Mel,” with the type of smile you give someone you’ve persuaded to take action. “Think about it. You’re doing this for us. And for Jacob. And for Mom.”

I took a while to respond. Between us, I simply gazed at the folded garments. I loved him somehow, despite the fatigue and uncertainty.

I replied, “Yes.”

The initial pregnancy seemed unreal. I felt as though I were taking someone else’s life. Brian and Lisa, the intended parents, were polite, considerate, and explicit about their limits. They paid all invoices on time, delivered care packages and thank-you notes after each session, and checked in without hovering.

Their composure was reassuring in a way. The couple regarded me as a person, not just as a vehicle for their child.

To his credit, Ethan also took the initiative. He caressed my feet at night and gave me smoothies in the morning. He continued to reassure me while handling Jacob’s bedtime readings without complaining.

“We’re doing something good, Mel. Something that matters.”

“You’re helping that family live their dreams.”

“Imagine if we didn’t have Jacob… you’re bringing joy to Brian and Lisa, Mel.”

I let myself think that we were in this together for those nine months.

I saw Lisa sob as she held the newborn for the first time. He was a small boy, red-faced and screaming for everyone to know he had arrived. Tears filled my eyes as well. I left with dignity after doing something challenging and emotional, not because I wanted to keep him.

A week later, we made the last installment. There was genuine relief. We were no longer living paycheck to paycheck for the first time in years. Ethan was doing the dishes when I noticed him humming. And it seemed to me that perhaps, just possibly, he had been correct all along.

However, that tranquility was short-lived.

My husband came in the door three months later as I was preparing supper with a folded spreadsheet that looked like a treasure map. Jacob was coloring at the kitchen counter while I chopped veggies.

Ethan replied, “If we do it one more time, Mel,” as he smoothly pushed the paper across the counter. “Then we can wipe it all out! Mom’s car loan, her credit cards, and even my dad’s funeral balance. It will all be done!”

I took a while to reply. Deep into my pelvis rushed a sharp, familiar aching. Perhaps it was phantom pain, coming and going in waves. Perhaps it wasn’t even phantom. Even today, I was unable to determine whether my sudden nausea was due to hormones or simply fear.

Then I said, “You’re serious? Ethan?” “I’m still healing. My body hasn’t recovered. I haven’t recovered.”

“I’m not asking you to do it next week,” he said hastily, getting nearer to me. “I just mean… think about it. If we get ahead of this debt, we can finally breathe. No more juggling bills. No more stress. We could finally go away on that beach holiday we’ve wanted.”

He gave me a smile as if he had just made me an offer.

We slept in bed that night with our backs nearly touching. I had trouble falling asleep. There were silent, odd areas where my body hurt. My stomach had stretch marks that went deeper than just the skin. When I shifted too quickly, I could still feel the ghost of a contraction.

“You’re doing this for us, Mel,” Ethan said in a low voice that was barely audible in the shadows. “For our future and for my mom’s peace of mind.”

My gaze was fixed on the ceiling. Overhead, the fan squeaked. I felt a calm, knowing feeling clutch inside of me.

“Yes,” I said. Once more.

Nearly a year later, the second pregnancy began to disintegrate me in unexpected ways.

Everything was heavier. Most days by noon, my back hurt, and my legs were so swollen that walking felt like stepping on wet cement. On some evenings, Ethan slept in the adjacent room while I laid awake for hours.

The first time he took a pillow and left, he told me that he had started sleeping in the guest room “to get better rest.” I made an effort to comprehend, but the distance between us simply widened.

One evening, I shouted out to him from the bathroom, “Can you help me out of the tub?”

He frowned as he stated, “You said you were okay with this, Melissa,” in the doorway. “Don’t make me feel guilty for something you agreed to.”

I remained silent. All I did was grab a towel and gently and cautiously pull myself up. The dull discomfort in my lower abdomen made me cringe. I was too exhausted to argue.

Nevertheless, I attended all of my appointments. I maintained my health to the best of my ability. I carried the baby as if it were my only duty.

When she was born, I put little Hazel into her mother’s arms and turned aside before the tears could fall. She had thick dark hair and a shriek that filled the room.

Ethan checked our account the following morning. The last payment was cleared.

“It’s done,” he remarked in a bland but contented tone. “Mom’s house is paid off. We’re finally free.”

We meant both of us, I thought. He didn’t.

Ethan returned home early a month later. “Sesame Street” was mumbling in the background as Jacob and I sat on the floor. I couldn’t read my husband’s expression as he stood in the doorway.

Softly, “I can’t do this anymore,” he said.

“Do what?”

His words, “This. You. Everything,” “I’m just not attracted to you anymore. You’ve changed. You let yourself go.”

I initially believed it to be a joke. However, he was already reaching into the hallway cupboard for a luggage. He stated that although he would “still be there for Jacob,” he needed to “find himself.” He was unable to continue living a life that felt like a weight around his neck.

In an instant, the man for whom I had twice given my life left our house.

I wept for weeks. I had trouble seeing myself in the mirror. I felt like my stretch marks were proof that I had failed. My body was alien. What’s the worst? I felt utilized, not just deserted.

Jacob was still with me, though. And that was sufficient to motivate me to wake up each day.

I eventually accepted a work at a nearby women’s health clinic because the alimony simply wasn’t sufficient to cover my expenses. The employment offered me a sense of purpose that I hadn’t had in a long time, and the hours were flexible. I was more than just a mother or a former spouse.

I was giving women a sense of being heard and noticed. Additionally, it assisted me in beginning my healing process in an odd and surprising way.

Almost unwillingly, I began treatment. After Jacob fell asleep at night, I wrote in my journal, expressing all of my pains and unsolved questions. Grief poured out gradually rather than in waves. in my laundry folding technique. in how I steered clear of mirrors.

Additionally, I had to stiffen my neck before I could enter our former bedroom.

Then my phone chimed one afternoon while I was replenishing prenatal vitamins at work.

It was Jamie, an acquaintance from Ethan’s workplace who always had a knack for being the first to know.

“Mel! You won’t believe what happened,” she said, her laughter hardly contained. “HR finally caught wind of what Ethan did. Leaving his wife after two surrogacies? It got around fast. And they’ve been questioning his character. He’s been dismissed.”

With a frown, I said, “Wait, seriously?” “They actually fired him?”

“Yes, it wrecked his reputation. And once he knew that people were aware of his actions… he started slipping up at work. It was grounds for being fired. And, that’s not even the best part,” Jamie said. “He tried dating that new girl in marketing. You know, the one we laughed at during the Christmas party?”

The recollection nearly made me giggle. “Well, she was showing everyone her beach selfies,” I added.

“Anyway, she blocked him. And she’s telling everyone how toxic he is. Everyone knows it. Oh… and Mel?”

“Yes?” I inquired, fearing her next words.

“He moved back in with his mom. That was the address he gave for his things to be sent over,” Jamie explained.

For a moment, I was at a loss for words. My chest weighed heavily from everything he had done to me. Something more, however, flared beneath it. It wasn’t happiness or even retaliation.

Relief was felt.

A few weeks later, Jamie sent me a picture. It showed Ethan in Target, wearing a tattered hoodie and without shaving. In some way, his face appeared bloated and aged. His eyes appeared lifeless as well.

Shortly after that, I was kindly mentored by a compassionate nutritionist named Dr. Lewis during a postnatal exam.

“Melissa,” she responded. “Have you ever thought about working with someone to rebalance your hormones?”

“No,” I replied with a headshake. “I guess I didn’t know I had the option.”

Her words were, “No pressure,” “But you’ve given so much of your body to others. Maybe it’s time to come back to it.”

I responded, “Maybe it is,” as I felt a softening inside.

I started over with her assistance. It began with peaceful dinners, leisurely strolls, and clothing that fit rather than hid. They told me not to use a scale. Before long, I began to find myself again.

After that, Hazel’s mother, Victoria, called.

She remarked, “You gave me a baby,” “Melissa, let me take care of you, please. It’s not monetary, of course, but let me help. Please.”

Victoria, who ran a chain of upscale salons, insisted that I spend the entire day there, getting my hair done, skincare services, new clothes, and nails done.

I remarked, “You don’t have to do that,” in an attempt to object. “You just enjoy your life with your gorgeous baby girl.”

“I want to,” she firmly stated. “You deserve it.”

A week later, I hardly recognized the lady staring back at me as I stood in the salon and watched the hairdresser at work.

However, I liked her. She appeared robust. Not merely getting by, but thriving.

Everything in my life started to change as a result of that newfound confidence.

I initially began sharing brief updates on my recovery, parenthood, body image, and what it was like to regain control of your body after giving it away so many times on social media, acting as a sort of personal journal.

Perhaps some ladies would read it, I reasoned. However, after that, comments began to appear. They disseminated the posts. Friends were tagged.

I was not writing out of resentment. I was writing from the truth. Nothing was sugarcoated by me. I discussed surrogacy. And about love masquerading as authority.

I wrote about the experience of giving everything you have to someone who then claims it was still insufficient.

What I dubbed my “Fit Mom Diary” eventually grew into a little but effective network. I was asked to talk by podcasts, and even contacted by certain wellness companies. For moms who had been financially or emotionally taken advantage of in the name of family, I founded a support group.

And I wasn’t Jacob’s mother, Marlene’s daughter-in-law, or Ethan’s wife for the first time.

Melissa was me, complete, unrepentant, and unbroken.

I recently moved into a bright new apartment with Jacob. Every week, my support group becomes bigger. Additionally, I always tell the truth when I share my tale. I gave two families infants they longed for, and I have no regrets about it.

And I’ve been able to rebuild as a result. And I’m getting up now.

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