I shook my head, still staring at the test in my other hand. “What if he doesn’t want to try again? What if he finds someone else?”
Someone whose body actually worked. Someone who didn’t fail on the first attempt. Someone who was worth the investment.
“Then he’s a fool,” Mama said, her voice firm.
But I knew better.
It wasn’t about foolishness. It was about biology. About science. About the cold, clinical reality that my body had been given one job—implant the embryo, let it grow, carry it to term—and it had failed.
And in Amai Landry’s world, failure had consequences.
I’d seen it in his eyes during the interview, heard it in his voice when he talked about needing someone who could handle the reality of who he was. He didn’t have time for second chancesor maybes or bodies that didn’t cooperate. He needed results. He needed a surrogate who could deliver.
And I wasn’t her.
Not anymore.
Maybe I never had been.
I leaned my head against Mama’s shoulder and let myself cry, the negative test still clutched in my hand, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, the cold tile beneath us. Mama didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t tell me it would all work out or that everything happened for a reason or any of the other empty platitudes people said when they didn’t know what else to say.
She just sat there with me on the bathroom floor, her arm around my shoulders, holding me while I fell apart.
And for now, that was all I had.
Dr. Beaumont’s office was quiet when I arrived at 9:00 AM. The kind of quiet that made every sound—the receptionist’s keyboard clicking, the hum of the air conditioning, my own breathing—feel too loud.
I signed in and sat in the waiting room with my hands folded in my lap, staring at a magazine I wasn’t reading. The blood test was just a formality. I already knew what it would say. Three negative home tests didn’t lie. But Dr. Beaumont had insisted on confirming with bloodwork, so here I was, going through the motions of something that was already over.
The nurse called my name after ten minutes. I followed her back to the phlebotomy room, rolled up my sleeves, and watched her tie the tourniquet around my arm. The needle pinch was nothing compared to the hormone injections I’d been doing for weeks. I barely felt it.
“Results should be ready in about an hour,” the nurse said as she labeled the vial. “Dr. Beaumont will call you directly.”
I nodded. Thanked her. Walked back out to the waiting room and straight to the exit. I didn’t want to be here when Amai showed up. Didn’t want to see the disappointment in his face or the calculation in his eyes as he decided whether I was worth another attempt. I just wanted to go home, crawl back into bed, and pretend the last two weeks hadn’t happened.
The call came at 10:47 AM while I was sitting on the porch steps at Mama’s house.
Dr. Beaumont’s voice was professional but kind. “The blood test confirms what we suspected. Your hCG levels are undetectable. The transfer was unsuccessful.”
I thanked her. Ended the call. Stared at my phone screen until it went dark.
Unsuccessful.
Such a clinical word for something that felt like my body had betrayed me.
I didn’t hear from Amai all day.
Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.
By 6 PM, I’d convinced myself he was already moving on. Already calling Raymond to pull the next candidate file. Already writing me off as a failed investment.
By 10:00 PM, I’d stopped checking my phone every five minutes.
By midnight, I’d given up on sleep entirely.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Mama’s soft snoring down the hall and the occasional car passing on the street outside. My mind wouldn’t shut off. It kept replaying the last two weeks on a loop—the transfer, the waiting, the hope I’d tried so hard not to feel, the three negative tests lined up on the bathroom sink like an indictment.
At 2:00 AM, I picked up my phone.
