She looked at me like I'd just suggested we sacrifice a goat in the backyard. "This doesn't have anything to do with us. It's my body, Grant. My choice."
"I don't need your permission." And there it was, the line in the sand. The moment when I realized that somewhere along the way, we'd stopped being a team and started being two people who happened to live in the same house and split the electric bill. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a rubber band around my ribs and was slowly twisting it.
"Melissa," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "If you do this, it will destroy our marriage. You understand that, right?" She stared at me for a long moment, and I thought maybe, just maybe, she was starting to get it.
Maybe she was realizing that carrying another man's baby wasn't exactly the kind of thing you could just add to your weekend to-do list right between grocery shopping and soccer practice. But then she smiled, and it wasn't the warm smile I'd fallen in love with eight years ago. It was cold, calculated, like she'd already made up her mind and was just going through the motions of pretending to care about my opinion. "Then maybe," she said, standing up and smoothing down her yoga pants, "you should rethink what being a husband means."
And just like that, she walked out of the room, leaving me sitting there with the muted TV and the crushing realization that my marriage had just died, even though neither of us was ready to admit it yet. That was the night everything changed. That was the night I learned that sometimes the person you love most in the world can become a complete stranger without ever leaving the room. You'd think after dropping a nuclear bomb on our marriage, Melissa might have taken a step back to consider the radioactive fallout.
But nope. That would have required actual self-awareness. And apparently my wife had checked that particular skill at the door when she decided to play baby factory for her boss. The next few days were like living in some twisted version of Groundhog Day.
Except instead of Bill Murray trying to win over Andie MacDowell, I was stuck trying to talk sense into a woman who'd apparently lost her damn mind. Every morning, I'd wake up thinking maybe the whole thing had been a nightmare brought on by too much leftover pizza. But there she'd be, humming while she made coffee, acting like she hadn't just announced her plans to destroy our family with the casual enthusiasm of someone discussing their weekend gardening plans. "Melissa," I'd start because I'm nothing if not persistent.
Some might say stupidly optimistic. "We need to talk about this surrogate thing." She'd give me this patronizing smile that made me want to throw my coffee mug against the wall. "Grant, I've made up my mind."
"Charles and Vivien really need this." Charles and Vivien. Always Charles and Vivien, like they were the royal family or something. Never mind that Charles was just another corporate suit who'd probably stepped on a dozen people climbing his way up the ladder.
And Vivien was one of those society wives who spent more on handbags than most people made in a year. But sure, let's upend our entire life because they couldn't figure out how to make a baby the old-fashioned way. I tried every angle I could think of. The practical angle.