Chapter 4
Tessa
I’m a few days shy of the ten week mark we talked about meeting before being transferred to Dr. Krauss, so that makes me two and half months along.
Mrs. Whitmore has not let up on pressuring me about the details.
At first, I thought I might have misjudged her.
Maybe all the crazy in-depth planning was her way of handling the stress of not knowing and fearing that it wouldn’t be successful.
Nope, come to find out, that’s just her regular personality.
But today we got called to the fertility clinic for an urgent meeting.
And even though I’ve been having serious misgivings about being a surrogate for the Whitmores, I hope nothing terrible has happened to the baby.
We’re all three nervously awaiting the news, when the medical director walks into the consultation room and sits down at behind the desk.
After polite greetings his expression turns wary. “Thank you all for coming today,” Dr. Langford states in a flat tone. “Unfortunately, there has been a slight complication.”
I feel Mrs. Whitmore’s spine straighten beside me. Mr. Whitmore tugs her closer into the circle of his arm.
“A complication?” she repeats. “What kind of complication, exactly?”
The director looks directly at me. Then back at the Whitmores.
“There was an error at the lab level,” he says carefully. “A mislabeled cryogenic sample was used during the insemination procedure.” He clears his throat, “The embryo we inserted was not created with Mr. Whitmore’s genetic material.”
I blink. “What… what does that mean?”
The doctor meets my eyes. “The embryo you’re carrying is genetically yours and a donor’s. But not Mr. Whitmore’s.”
Mrs. Whitmore goes rigid. “No,” she says flatly. “That’s not possible.”
He lowers his voice. “I’m afraid it is.”
“But I saw the file. I saw the chart. The chain of custody.”
“There was a mislabeling. A handling error. We’re already investigating the full scope. But the pregnancy is viable.”
“This is insane,” Mr. Whitmore sputters. “We agreed that my genetic material would be used.”
“So, you’re saying,” Mrs. Whitmore says slowly, her voice cold as ice, “she’s carrying someone else’s baby? Not my husband’s? Not ours?”
The doctor nods once. “Yes. That’s correct.”
She stands so fast her chair screeches backward.
“No,” she says again. “No. This is your mistake. You need to fix it.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it beating in my chest. I’m in utter disbelief. I look down at my stomach again. At the flatness that will soon swell with a stranger’s baby. I honestly don’t know where this leaves me.
The doctor holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Please. I understand this is upsetting, but we want to make this right. I’ve already reached out to corporate and legal. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll find out what options they’re willing to offer you in recompense.”
“Fine. I want to hear what they’re going to do about this clusterfuck,” she spits back.
The poor man is up and out the door before any of us can blink. The door closes behind him with a soft click. The second the latch clicks into place, the air shifts.
She turns to me and the look on her face scares me a bit.
She looks like she could kill someone about now.
Naturally not me, because she wants me to carry her child.
I feel like cautioning that medical director to give her a few minutes to calm down though because I could easily see her scratching his eyes out.
I open my mouth to say something soothing, but she cuts me off before I can get the words out.
“You need to terminate.”
I blink, struggling to get my head around what she’s suggesting. “What?”
You heard me,” she says. “Abort the embryo you’re carrying, and we’ll start again. The right way this time.”
I stare at her, brain trying to catch up. “But it’s a viable pregnancy, I’m almost ten weeks.”
“We’re not interested in the child you’re carrying,” Mr. Whitmore interrupts. His tone is flat and businesslike. “We paid for a biological heir to the Whitmore family fortune. I cannot simply accept any stray off the street as my heir. Tell me you at least understand that.”
I start to get sick to my stomach. “You want me to kill my baby because it’s not yours?” I ask, my voice shaking more than I want it to.
Mrs. Whitmore tilts her head, like I’m being unreasonable.
“You told us you had no interest in a child of your own. Whoever’s genetic material they used isn’t going to reimburse you for carrying his child.
So why would you carry a child no one wants to term, and give birth to it?
That doesn’t even begin to make rational sense. You know that, right?”
“I can’t just terminate a pregnancy because it’s inconvenient for you.”
“And just why not? You weren’t hired to raise moral objections. You were hired to carry our child. This one isn’t.”
Her words feel like a cold knife to my heart.
Part of my rational brain knows that what she’s saying is true.
I’m just a glorified incubator with no say in the matter.
But what she’s asking is so wrong. I might have signed away my rights when I agreed to be their surrogate, but this baby is half mine.
“I understand your concerns. But I can’t do that,” I tell her quietly.
Mr. Whitmore lifts his chin and glares at me. “Don’t act like you have a choice.”
I jerk back like he slapped me. “Excuse me?”
“This was a paid arrangement,” he says, folding his arms. “The contract you signed stipulated that you were a vessel, not a decision maker. If we have to sue you, we will. And unless I miss my guess, you can’t even afford legal representation.”
I feel something shift in me then. A tiny, fragile spark. Not a decision maker. How dare he say that to me.
Mrs. Whitmore adds, “Think very carefully about the position you’re in, Ms. Grant.
If you refuse to cooperate, the clinic may force you to pay, since I’m certainly not going to give them one red cent.
You’ll walk away with nothing but a big pile of medical debt, and that means you won’t be considered for another surrogacy. ”
“And you’ll be stuck with a baby that belongs to no one,” Mr. Whitmore adds.
“I need time to think,” I say. My voice is small but steady. I don’t have to think at all, I know what I’m going to do. While I believe that women should have the right to choose, this is what I choose.
I’m keeping my baby.
Mrs. Whitmore stands and slings her purse over one shoulder. “Don’t take too long. We’ll be contacting our legal team this afternoon.”
They both storm out, leaving me reeling.
When Dr. Langford returns fifteen minutes later. I’m still sitting in the chair, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
I’m quick to tell him, “I’m sorry the Whitmores chose to leave before we could get this resolved. I know you’re trying your best.”
He sighs. “Yeah, they had words with me on the way out the door. All communication needs to go through their attorney moving forward.”
“Again, I’m so sorry,” I tell him earnestly. God knows that after our conversation, the Whitmores are not my favorite people.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s our fault this mix-up occurred. I have one more thing to check on, Ms. Grant. Would you mind waiting here just a little longer?”
I nod numbly. I don’t have the energy to argue. I feel like if I stand up, my legs will give out, so sitting a while longer works for me.
He disappears into the adjoining office. The one with the frosted glass walls and the view of the nurse’s station. I can see the shape of him moving behind the glass. Then I hear his voice. It’s muffled but clear enough through the cracked door. He left me in here to make a phone call.
“Mr. Jackson? This is Dr. Langford, the Medical Director at New Horizons Fertility.”
Jackson. That must be him, the man whose genetics I’m carrying inside me.
There’s a pause and then Dr. Langford explains, “I’m calling regarding an error involving your sample. It was accidentally used for IVF.”
Another pause.
“Yes. It resulted in a viable pregnancy. That is correct.”
Even though I know what’s being said, my breath catches. Hearing it out loud from someone else’s mouth makes it real all over again. There’s a click and Dr. Langford speaks again, “I just put you on speaker so I can take notes while we talk.”
Then I hear the voice on the other end of the line. It’s male, deep and rough, not cold like Mr. Whitmore’s, but tense and laced with note of warning.
“You’re saying someone used my sperm?”
“Yes, I’m very sorry. The circumstances were highly irregular.”
Silence again. Then a bark of disbelief. “Jesus Christ!”
The next part makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“Who is she?” the man demands.
Dr. Langford starts to stammer. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information without written consent from her.”
“Who is she?” the voice snaps again. Loud enough that I hear it echo in the hallway.
I flinch.
The heat in his voice isn’t cruel. It’s protective. He clearly doesn’t see this as just some problem to solve but rather something he won’t walk away from. My fingers tighten around my purse.
Dr. Langford’s voice lowers, trying to contain things.
“We’re working on a resolution. If we can secure your consent retroactively, we can proceed with linking the surrogate with another couple, one who wasn’t planning to use their own genetic material, perhaps. Or if she chooses, we can terminate the pregnancy.”
“No.” The response is immediate. Fierce. Final. “That’s my kid. I didn’t sign up for this, but I’m sure as hell not letting some rich couple buy it out from under me or have you fuckers kill my kid.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds. Then the director speaks again, voice trembling just slightly.
“Understood.”
“I want you to give her my name and contact information.”
“I’ll need a signed consent for that.”
“You don’t need a goddamn signed anything. I’m telling you straight up to give her my information.” He pauses for a couple of seconds and then states firmly, “No, I’m demanding you give it to her immediately. Ask her to call me. We can work this out.”
At this point, Dr. Langford just seems defeated. “Fine. We’ll be in touch.”
When the call ends, I sit in stunned silence for a few minutes while the doctor composes himself.
That man, whoever he is, just refused to disappear. He could’ve signed a waiver. Could’ve washed his hands of the baby. That’s what I expected. And what the Whitmores probably expected too.
But instead, his response was to fight for his kid. I don’t even know his full name, but something I can’t quite identify shifts in my chest. This isn’t just my problem anymore. There’s another person out there who cares about this baby and wants it to survive.
The door creaks open, and Dr. Langford steps back into the consultation room, smoothing his lab coat like he’s trying to look composed.
I sit up straighter without meaning to.
“I’ve just informed the donor. He asked for your name,” the doctor says gently. “And contact information.”
I swallow. “You didn’t give it to him.”
“I couldn’t,” he confirms. “Not without your signed consent.”
He moves to the desk, pulls open a drawer, and retrieves a plain white card. He flips it over and scribbles something on the back with a black pen.
“But,” he continues, “he insisted that I pass this on.”
He holds the card out between two fingers. I don’t reach for it right away.
“What did he say?” I ask, even though I overheard the conversation.
His expression softens a bit.
“More or less, he said to tell the woman carrying his child… that he wants the baby. That he’ll take full responsibility. That she’s not alone in this.”
I reach for the card slowly, turning it over in my hands.
The writing is neat and bold. Jasper Jackson. A phone number. An email. Nothing else.
I stare at the name. Jasper. Like the voice I heard on the phone—gritty, sharp, and dangerous in all the ways that don’t particularly scare me.
“Do you want to give consent to release your information?” the director asks quietly. “Or would you prefer we hold off?”
I close my fingers around the card.
“Not yet,” I say. “I need… time.”
He nods once. “Understandable. I want to apologize again for putting you in this position.”
“Mistakes happen,” I tell him.
“You don’t need his permission to terminate, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what the Whitmores want, to get rid of this fetus to make room for their own.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know exactly but I know what I don’t want, and that’s to terminate this life growing inside me,” I say as I rise to my feet.
“Don’t let anyone pressure you. Regardless of what you’ve signed to become a surrogate, no one can take away your bodily autonomy.”
“Thank you, Dr. Langford.”
He comes to his feet and walks me to the door. I’ll admit, my legs shaky but they get stronger with each step.
“One thing I should mention,” he says before we open the door. “Mr. Jackson seemed pretty intent on pursuing parental rights. If he files for a court order, we’ll be legally required to disclose your identity.”
“I understand.”
He opens the door for me, giving me one piece of parting advice.
“I would consider contacting him. It can’t hurt to talk this out before he resorts to legal action.
His genetic material was not a donation.
He stored it for his own use. I don’t know what, if any legal rights that gives him.
I strongly advise you to seek legal representation if the two of you can’t come to an agreement. ”
“You mean, if I continue the pregnancy he might be able to sue for parental rights,” I say grimly.
He gives me one very distinct nod.
“I understand, Dr. Langford. Thank you for taking the time to explain.”
“I’m sorry this surrogacy wasn’t everything you hoped it would be.”
I don’t tell him that that’s the story of my life.