Phillip. The name hung in the air between us, unspoken but present.
My jaw tightened. “This isn’t about a man.”
“Baby, everything’s about a man when there’s that much money involved.” Mama finished her drink, ice rattling in the empty glass. “Men don’t pay that kind of money unless they want something they can’t get no other way. And whatever they want? It ain’t never as simple as they make it sound.”
She was right.
I knew she was right.
But $250,000 was staring at me from a cracked phone screen, and desperation had a way of making stupid things sound reasonable. I’d just spent sixteen hours wiping strangers who cursed me out on the daily. I’d walked twelve blocks in shoes that were falling apart. I had forty-seven dollars to my name and a life that felt like it was happening to someone else.
“I’m gonna apply,” I heard myself say.
Mama went still. “You’re gonna what?”
“I’m gonna apply.” My voice was steadier now, steel underneath the exhaustion. “It’s a surrogacy contract. Somebody needs a baby, and I need money. It’s biology and a check. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Mama laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Baby, nothing is everthat’s itwhen a man’s involved. You carry somebody’s baby for nine months, you think that’s just gonna be biology? You think feelings don’t get involved? You think that man ain’t gon’ want more when it’s all said and done?”
“I can handle it.”
“That’s what you said about Phillip.”
The words hit like a slap.
I stood up, phone clutched in my hand. “This is different.”
“How?”
“Because this time I’m going in with my eyes open. This time there’s a contract. This time I know exactly what I’m getting and what I’m giving up.” I could feel my voice rising, could feel all the frustration, fear, and desperation pouring out. “I got forty-seven dollars, Mama. Forty-seven. I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep being broke and stuck and working doubles at Magnolia Gardens, wiping people who don’t even know I exist. And I don’t need you throwing Phillip in my face every chance you get!”
“And you think selling your body’s gonna fix that? And I say what I want to say in MY house!”
“I’m not selling my body. I’m renting my womb. There’s a difference.”
Mama stood too, slower, her joints protesting. She set the empty glass on the side table with a deliberate click. When she looked at me, her eyes were wet, but her voice was steady.
“You do what you gotta do, baby. You always have. But don’t stand there and tell me this is just biology. Don’t lie to yourself like that.” She moved toward the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. “And when it gets complicated—and it will get complicated—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She disappeared into the kitchen.
I stood alone in the living room, phone burning in my hand.
Outside, the streetlight finally gave up and went dark.
I looked down at the screen. The ad was still there.Apply here.
$47.23 in my account. A cracked phone. A broken couch. Hands that smelled like bleach and sadness. A life that felt like it was happening to someone else. All of it crashing down on me at once.
And I had a way out that sounded too good to be true.
I clicked the link.
The application loaded—name, age, medical history, contact information. I filled it out, sitting on Mama’s couch at midnight, my fingers moving across the cracked screen like they belonged to someone braver than me.
At the bottom:A representative will contact you within 48 hours to schedule an initial consultation.
I hit submit.
