I hung up and stared at the address on my screen.
Friday at 2 PM.
Three days.
I had three days to prepare for the interview that would change everything.
Three days to convince myself I could do this.
Three days to become someone brave enough to walk into that house and not flinch.
Friday came too fast.
I stood in Saroya’s living room, wearing a sundress I’d borrowed—pale yellow, fitted at the waist, hem hitting just above my knees. It was the kind of dress women wore to garden parties and brunch, not the kind of dress I’d ever owned. Saroya had paired it with sandals that were only slightly too big and a cardigan that covered the worst of my raw knuckles.
“You look good,” she said, adjusting the strap on my shoulder. “Real good. Like you belong in the Garden District.”
I looked at myself in her hallway mirror.
I didn’t recognize the woman looking back.
She looked put-together. Professional. Like someone who had options.
Like someone who wasn’t desperate.
The dress accented my full hips and fit tight at the top pushing out my boobies. Saroya combed out my ponytail and gave me an ol’ nasty body wave bust down part. My full cheekslooked naturally blushed, and my make-up was minimal but alluring.
“You sure about this job?” Saroya asked, watching me in the mirror.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m sure.”
“Okay.” She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t push. “You need a ride?”
“No. I’ll take the bus.”
“In that dress?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Saroya hugged me, quick and tight. “Good luck, baby. You got this.”
I left her house and walked to the bus stop, the sundress moving around my legs like it belonged to someone else. The bus came. I got on and rode through the city, watching the neighborhoods change from broke to broken to barely holding on to suddenly, impossibly, beautiful.
The Garden District.
Where the houses had columns and gardens and gates that saidkeep outwithout saying a word.
I got off at the stop closest to the address Raymond had sent me. Walked three blocks in Saroya’s too-big sandals. My feet were already blistering.
And then I saw it.
The house.
Three stories. White columns. A garden that looked like it cost more to maintain than I made in a year. A gate with an intercom.
This was where I was supposed to go.
This was where someone was willing to pay me $250,000 to carry their child.
