13. TRUTH #3
The pregnancy tests were in the cabinet under the sink, tucked behind the extra toilet paper and cleaning supplies where Mama wouldn’t accidentally find them.
I’d bought a three-pack at Walgreens two days ago, paid cash, avoided eye contact with the cashier like I was buying something illegal.
Now I pulled the box out and stared at it, my hands already shaking.
Early Detection. Results 6 Days Sooner.
I tore open the box. Pulled out the first test. Read the instructions even though I’d already memorized them, even though I’d watched three YouTube videos and read a dozen forum posts about how to take a pregnancy test correctly, how to avoid false negatives, and how to interpret faint lines.
The instructions were simple: Remove cap. Hold stick in urine stream for five seconds. Replace cap. Wait three minutes.
Three minutes.
I could do three minutes.
I sat on the toilet and unwrapped the test with trembling fingers.
The plastic was cool and smooth, clinical in a way that made my stomach twist. I held it in the stream like the instructions said, counting in my head—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi—then capped it and set it on the edge of the sink.
The digital clock on my phone read 4:52 AM.
Three minutes.
I washed my hands. Dried them on the towel hanging by the door.
Sat on the closed toilet lid because my legs felt unsteady.
The bathroom tile was cold under my bare feet.
I pressed my toes against it, focusing on the sensation, trying to ground myself in something real and immediate instead of the spiraling anxiety building in my chest.
One minute.
I stared at the test on the sink. From this angle, I couldn’t see the result window yet. Just the white plastic casing and the pink cap. It looked so small. So insignificant. Like it shouldn’t have the power to change everything.
But it did.
Two minutes.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it too fast, nearly dropped it. A text from Saroya: You up?
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My throat felt tight and my hands were shaking worse now. I couldn’t think about anything except the test on the sink and the seconds ticking by and the fact that in one more minute, I’d know.
I’d know if the last two weeks of waiting and hoping and obsessing had been for something.
I’d know if my body had done what it was supposed to do.
I’d know if I was still worth $250,000 or if I’d just become another failed candidate in Amai Landry’s search for a surrogate who could actually deliver.
Three minutes.
I stood up. My legs felt like water. I picked up the test with both hands because I didn’t trust myself to hold it steady with just one. Turned it over. Looked at the result window.
One line.
Pink and clear and unmistakable in the control section.
And nothing in the test section.
Nothing.
I stared at it. Blinked. Stared harder. Tilted it toward the light like maybe I’d missed something, like maybe there was a faint second line I just couldn’t see in the harsh fluorescent glow.
But there wasn’t.
Just one line.
Negative.
The word echoed in my head, cold and final. Negative. Not pregnant. Failed. My body had failed. The embryo hadn’t implanted, or it had implanted and then stopped growing, or my hormone levels were too low, or something in my biology had rejected what was supposed to take root and grow.
I set the test on the sink with shaking hands. Pulled out the second one. Unwrapped it. Took it. Waited three more minutes that felt like three hours, pacing the small bathroom in tight circles, my bare feet slapping against the cold tile.
Negative.
I took the third test.
Negative.
All three tests lined up on the edge of the sink like soldiers, each one showing the same single pink line in the control window and nothing—absolutely nothing—in the test section.
My knees gave out.
I sank onto the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, the cold tile seeping through my pajama pants.
One of the tests was still in my hand. I stared at it, at that single damning line, and felt something crack open in my chest. Not a clean break.
Something jagged and raw that made it hard to breathe.
The tears came fast and hot, spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them. I pressed my free hand over my mouth to muffle the sound, but it didn’t help. The sobs came anyway, wrenching up from somewhere deep and desperate, the kind of crying that hurt, that left you hollow.
I wasn’t crying because I’d lost a baby. There was no baby. There had never been a baby. Just an embryo that hadn’t taken, cells that hadn’t divided, biology that had failed to do what biology was supposed to do.
I was crying because my body had failed.
Because I’d done everything right—taken the hormones, followed the protocol, showed up for every appointment, lay on that exam table with my legs in stirrups while Dr. Beaumont transferred the embryo—and it still hadn’t been enough.
I was crying because I could see it all slipping away. The $250,000. The way out. The future I’d been building in my head for the last two weeks, the one where I wasn’t broke and desperate and working double shifts at Magnolia Gardens, wiping down people who’d swing on me at any given moment.
I was crying because I knew what came next.
Amai would find someone else. Someone whose body actually worked.
Someone who could carry his child without failing in the first two weeks.
And I’d be back where I started—$47.23 in my checking account, a mama who drank too much, and a life that felt like drowning in slow motion.
The bathroom door opened.
I didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. I knew Mama’s footsteps, the way she moved through the house, even in the middle of the night.
“Baby?”
Her voice was soft. Careful. The way she sounded when she was sober and worried and trying not to make things worse.
I couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe past the tightness in my chest.
Mama didn’t say anything else. Just lowered herself onto the floor next to me, her back against the tub, her shoulder pressed against mine. She was wearing her nightgown, and her hair was wrapped in a silk scarf. She smelled like cocoa butter and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke.
She didn’t ask what was wrong. Didn’t need to. The pregnancy tests lined up on the sink told the whole story.
“It didn’t work,” I managed finally, my voice breaking on the last word.
Mama reached over and took my hand. Squeezed it. Her palm was warm and rough and familiar in a way that made me cry harder.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “You can try again.”
I shook my head, still staring at the test in my other hand. “What if he doesn’t want to try again? What if he finds someone else?”
Someone whose body actually worked. Someone who didn’t fail on the first attempt. Someone who was worth the investment.
“Then he’s a fool,” Mama said, her voice firm.
But I knew better.
It wasn’t about foolishness. It was about biology. About science. About the cold, clinical reality that my body had been given one job—implant the embryo, let it grow, carry it to term—and it had failed.
And in Amai Landry’s world, failure had consequences.
I’d seen it in his eyes during the interview, heard it in his voice when he talked about needing someone who could handle the reality of who he was. He didn’t have time for second chances or maybes or bodies that didn’t cooperate. He needed results. He needed a surrogate who could deliver.
And I wasn’t her.
Not anymore.
Maybe I never had been.
I leaned my head against Mama’s shoulder and let myself cry, the negative test still clutched in my hand, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, the cold tile beneath us.
Mama didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t tell me it would all work out or that everything happened for a reason or any of the other empty platitudes people said when they didn’t know what else to say.
She just sat there with me on the bathroom floor, her arm around my shoulders, holding me while I fell apart.
And for now, that was all I had.
Dr. Beaumont’s office was quiet when I arrived at 9:00 AM. The kind of quiet that made every sound—the receptionist’s keyboard clicking, the hum of the air conditioning, my own breathing—feel too loud.
I signed in and sat in the waiting room with my hands folded in my lap, staring at a magazine I wasn’t reading.
The blood test was just a formality. I already knew what it would say.
Three negative home tests didn’t lie. But Dr. Beaumont had insisted on confirming with bloodwork, so here I was, going through the motions of something that was already over.
The nurse called my name after ten minutes. I followed her back to the phlebotomy room, rolled up my sleeves, and watched her tie the tourniquet around my arm. The needle pinch was nothing compared to the hormone injections I’d been doing for weeks. I barely felt it.
“Results should be ready in about an hour,” the nurse said as she labeled the vial. “Dr. Beaumont will call you directly.”
I nodded. Thanked her. Walked back out to the waiting room and straight to the exit.
I didn’t want to be here when Amai showed up.
Didn’t want to see the disappointment in his face or the calculation in his eyes as he decided whether I was worth another attempt.
I just wanted to go home, crawl back into bed, and pretend the last two weeks hadn’t happened.
The call came at 10:47 AM while I was sitting on the porch steps at Mama’s house.
Dr. Beaumont’s voice was professional but kind. “The blood test confirms what we suspected. Your hCG levels are undetectable. The transfer was unsuccessful.”
I thanked her. Ended the call. Stared at my phone screen until it went dark.
Unsuccessful.
Such a clinical word for something that felt like my body had betrayed me.
I didn’t hear from Amai all day.
Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.