When my best friend tearfully couldn’t carry her own child, I offered to step in. I said yes without hesitation—a promise made in love, unguarded and deeply heartfelt.
At first, everything seemed perfect. We shared doctor visits, laughter, and hope. I carried her child as if it were our dream embodied. I believed friendship meant selflessness.
But in the days after birth, something shifted. Overnight, I felt invisible. My texts went unreturned. I watched as she stepped seamlessly into motherhood, while I existed on the margins—as if the bond we shared meant nothing. When she omitted me from social media posts, glossed over my role at family gatherings, and treated me like a stranger, betrayal crushed me.
A wave of regret followed, not for helping—but for being taken for granted. I carried more than a child; I carried unspoken expectations and emotional scars. Surrogacy wasn’t what I thought—it wasn’t a clear act of love—it became my most painful mistake.
