The screen went white, then loaded a confirmation page.Thank you for your interest. Your application has been received.
I sat there staring at those words until they stopped making sense.
What had I just done?
My phone buzzed. A text from my sister.
Saroya: You still up? Need to talk to you about something.
I texted back:
Yeah. What’s up?
Saroya: Can I come by tomorrow? Bring the kids?
Sure.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
Finally:
Saroya: You okay? You sound weird.
I’m fine. Just tired.
Saroya: Okay. Love you.
Love you too.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The water stain looked like a map of somewhere I’d never been. Somewhere better than here.
Forty-eight hours.
That’s how long I had before someone called me back. Before this became real. Before I had to decide if I was really going to do this or if I was just going to keep scrolling through job listings and plasma donation ads until I died in this house.
I thought about Mrs. Thibodeaux staring at the wall, forgetting everything she used to be.
I thought about Phillip and Destiny in my house, sleeping in my bed.
I thought about $250,000 and what it could buy: freedom, a fresh start, a life that didn’t taste like failure.
Nine months.
I could do nine months.
I’d already survived worse.
Two days later, my phone rang.
Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Renois?” A man’s voice, professional, clipped. “This is Raymond Fontenot. I’m calling regarding your application for the gestational surrogate position.”
My heart stopped.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”
