My wife wanted to be the surrogate for her rich boss. I warned her not to do it, but she did it anyway, saying, "It's my body, my choice." Now she and her family are begging me. But I am clear: not my baby, not my problem.
Let me tell you how my entire world got flipped like a goddamn pancake on a Tuesday night in October. My name's Grant Walker, and up until that moment, I thought I had a pretty decent handle on my life. Sure, the mortgage was kicking my ass. The kids were driving me nuts with their constant need for new sneakers that cost more than my first car.
And my job at the accounting firm wasn't exactly setting my soul on fire. But hey, that's middle-class America for you, right? We're all just treading water, hoping we don't drown before retirement. I was sprawled on our beat-up leather couch, the one we'd bought from a garage sale three years ago because we couldn't afford the fancy sectional Melissa had been eyeing at Pottery Barn.
I was flipping through Netflix like it was my part-time job. You know how it is. Scroll for 20 minutes, watch nothing, repeat until bedtime. The kids were finally asleep after what felt like a three-hour negotiation about why they couldn't have ice cream for dinner.
And for once, the house was quiet enough that I could actually hear myself think. Melissa walked into the living room with that weird smile she gets when she's about to tell me she bought something expensive without asking. You married folks know the look. It's somewhere between "Please don't be mad" and "I'm about to ruin your day."
She plopped down next to me, which should have been my first red flag because usually she sits on the opposite end of the couch, scrolling through her phone, liking Instagram posts of her high school friends pretending their lives are perfect. "So," she said. And that's when I knew I was screwed. Nobody starts a conversation with "so" when they're about to tell you something good.
"So" is the opening act for bad news. "So" is what comes right before "the car needs new brakes" or "your mother's coming to stay for a month." I muted the TV, some crime show where they solve murders in exactly 42 minutes, which is about as realistic as my chances of ever owning a boat, and turned to look at her. "What's up, babe?" I asked because, despite being married for eight years, I still hadn't learned to just keep my mouth shut and pretend to be asleep.
That's when she dropped it. Just like that. No warning, no buildup, no "Honey, we need to talk." She just looked at me with those big brown eyes that had gotten me into this mess in the first place and said, "I'm going to be a surrogate for my boss, Mr. Whitmore."
I swear to God, time stopped. You know that moment in movies when everything goes silent and the camera zooms in on the protagonist's face? That was me. Except instead of dramatic music, all I could hear was the neighbor's dog barking at absolutely nothing like dogs do when they want to remind you that life is chaos.
At first, I laughed. I actually laughed because what else do you do when your wife tells you she's planning to carry another man's baby like she's announcing she's thinking about taking up yoga? "Good one, Mel," I said, reaching for the remote. "What are we watching?"