My stepsister begged me to be her surrogate after years of failed IVF — but at 8 months pregnant, I overheard her on the phone saying, “She can’t find out the truth before the baby is born.”

“I did what I had to do.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“You don’t understand what it’s been like.

Years, do you hear me?

Years of nothing.

Of failing.

Of watching everyone around me have what I couldn’t have.

I just wanted—”

“I know what you wanted,” I said.

“I agreed to help you get it.

I gave you eight months of my life because I loved you and I trusted you.” I looked at her steadily.

“And you used that against me.”

Penelope’s hands were shaking.

“I wasn’t using it against you.

I was protecting the baby.”

“From what?”

She didn’t answer.

“From me?” I said.

“You were protecting the baby from me?”

“I was protecting the arrangement,” she said.

“If you had known about the donor, you might have said no.

And I couldn’t risk that.

Not after everything.”

“So you made the decision for me.”