2. TRUTH RENOIS #2
But $250,000 was staring at me from a cracked phone screen, and desperation had a way of making stupid things sound reasonable.
I’d just spent sixteen hours wiping strangers who cursed me out on the daily.
I’d walked twelve blocks in shoes that were falling apart.
I had forty-seven dollars to my name and a life that felt like it was happening to someone else.
“I’m gonna apply,” I heard myself say.
Mama went still. “You’re gonna what?”
“I’m gonna apply.” My voice was steadier now, steel underneath the exhaustion. “It’s a surrogacy contract. Somebody needs a baby, and I need money. It’s biology and a check. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Mama laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Baby, nothing is ever that’s it when a man’s involved.
You carry somebody’s baby for nine months, you think that’s just gonna be biology?
You think feelings don’t get involved? You think that man ain’t gon’ want more when it’s all said and done? ”
“I can handle it.”
“That’s what you said about Phillip.”
The words hit like a slap.
I stood up, phone clutched in my hand. “This is different.”
“How?”
“Because this time I’m going in with my eyes open.
This time there’s a contract. This time I know exactly what I’m getting and what I’m giving up.
” I could feel my voice rising, could feel all the frustration, fear, and desperation pouring out.
“I got forty-seven dollars, Mama. Forty-seven. I can’t keep living like this.
I can’t keep being broke and stuck and working doubles at Magnolia Gardens, wiping people who don’t even know I exist. And I don’t need you throwing Phillip in my face every chance you get! ”
“And you think selling your body’s gonna fix that? And I say what I want to say in MY house!”
“I’m not selling my body. I’m renting my womb. There’s a difference.”
Mama stood too, slower, her joints protesting. She set the empty glass on the side table with a deliberate click. When she looked at me, her eyes were wet, but her voice was steady.
“You do what you gotta do, baby. You always have. But don’t stand there and tell me this is just biology. Don’t lie to yourself like that.” She moved toward the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. “And when it gets complicated—and it will get complicated—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She disappeared into the kitchen.
I stood alone in the living room, phone burning in my hand.
Outside, the streetlight finally gave up and went dark.
I looked down at the screen. The ad was still there. Apply here.
$47.23 in my account. A cracked phone. A broken couch. Hands that smelled like bleach and sadness. A life that felt like it was happening to someone else. All of it crashing down on me at once.
And I had a way out that sounded too good to be true.
I clicked the link.
The application loaded—name, age, medical history, contact information. I filled it out, sitting on Mama’s couch at midnight, my fingers moving across the cracked screen like they belonged to someone braver than me.
At the bottom: A representative will contact you within 48 hours to schedule an initial consultation.
I hit submit.
The screen went white, then loaded a confirmation page. Thank you for your interest. Your application has been received.
I sat there staring at those words until they stopped making sense.
What had I just done?
My phone buzzed. A text from my sister.
Saroya: You still up? Need to talk to you about something.
I texted back:
Yeah. What’s up?
Saroya: Can I come by tomorrow? Bring the kids?
Sure.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
Finally:
Saroya: You okay? You sound weird.
I’m fine. Just tired.
Saroya: Okay. Love you.
Love you too.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The water stain looked like a map of somewhere I’d never been. Somewhere better than here.
Forty-eight hours.
That’s how long I had before someone called me back. Before this became real. Before I had to decide if I was really going to do this or if I was just going to keep scrolling through job listings and plasma donation ads until I died in this house.
I thought about Mrs. Thibodeaux staring at the wall, forgetting everything she used to be.
I thought about Phillip and Destiny in my house, sleeping in my bed.
I thought about $250,000 and what it could buy: freedom, a fresh start, a life that didn’t taste like failure.
Nine months.
I could do nine months.
I’d already survived worse.
Two days later, my phone rang.
Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Renois?” A man’s voice, professional, clipped. “This is Raymond Fontenot. I’m calling regarding your application for the gestational surrogate position.”
My heart stopped.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”
“We’d like to schedule an initial consultation. Are you available this Friday at 2 PM?”
Friday. That was three days away. Three days to change my mind. Three days to come to my senses.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I’m available.”
“Excellent. I’ll send you the address via text. The consultation will take approximately one hour. Please bring a valid ID and be prepared to discuss your medical history in detail.”
“Okay.”
“And Ms. Renois?” His voice softened, just slightly. “This is a confidential matter. We ask that you not discuss the details of this arrangement with anyone outside of our office.”
“I understand.”
“Good. We’ll see you Friday.”
He hung up.
I sat there holding my phone, my hand shaking.
This was real.
This was actually happening.
I looked down at the text that came through a second later: an address in the Garden District. The kind of neighborhood where people like me only went to clean houses or watch other people’s children.
I needed something to wear.
Something that didn’t smell like Magnolia Gardens.
Something that made me look like a woman who had her life together, even if it was a lie.
I called Saroya.
“Hey,” she answered, kids screaming in the background. “What’s up?”
“Can I borrow a dress?”
“A dress? For what?”
“Job interview.”
“What kind of job?”
I hesitated. “Personal assistant for a wealthy family.”
“In the Garden District?”
“Yeah.”
Saroya whistled. “Damn, Truth. Moving up in the world. Yeah, come by tomorrow. I got something that’ll work.”
“Thanks.”
“You okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine. Just nervous.”
“You’ll be great. You always are.”
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 cheeks looked 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 said keep out without 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.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring at that house, my heart doing somersaults in my chest.
I could turn around.
I could get back on the bus, go home, and keep working doubles at Magnolia Gardens until my body gave out or my spirit did, whichever came first.
Or I could walk through that gate.
I pressed the button on the intercom.
A voice crackled through: “Name?”
“Truth Renois. I have a 2 PM appointment.”
The gate buzzed and swung open.
I walked through to where everything could change.