She married him, believing everything would turn out well. No, they didn’t have wealthy parents to back them up. No one was going to buy them an apartment or a car.
But they were young. They were healthy. Their whole lives were ahead of them. She devoted herself entirely to their family. She worked and took any side job she could find. She managed the household. She could whip up a meal from practically nothing. She tried to live debt-free. So, as soon as she got her paycheck, she paid the rent for their modest apartment and the utility bills. She didn’t even glance at boutique windows—what was the point? She could get creative—knit a scarf and a hat to go with her old coat, and suddenly that five-year-old piece of clothing would look fresh and vibrant. But her husband needed new sneakers. His fourth pair since their wedding. Well, what could she do? That’s just how he wore out shoes. And he needed new jeans. And at least three new t-shirts…
At first, he’d look at the new clothes she brought home, delighted, saying “thank you.” Then he got used to it. He started reminding her it was time to update his wardrobe. She didn’t even notice when his reminders turned into demands. She would’ve been happy to oblige. If only he had a steady job, a stable income. Even a modest one, but without constant layoffs. Either they didn’t value him at one place, or another paid pennies. And he racked up seven to nine unpaid “vacations” a year. She loved him. And, as they still say in our small towns, “to love is to pity.” So she didn’t say anything to him. And she would’ve kept silent.
But in the third year of their marriage, she got pregnant. She told him the news when she came back from the women’s clinic with her pregnancy card. The news seemed to shake him up. And he managed to stick it out at the factory almost until the baby was born. Though he often complained it wasn’t a job, it was torture.
She gave birth to a boy. The delivery was easy. The little guy was perfect, healthy. He wrinkled his nose when she fed him, just like her husband did when he liked something. She was the happiest woman alive. But the happiness didn’t last long. Her husband, knowing there was a child support payment, announced he was quitting the factory. He’d look for something better. And for almost a year, he lived off her. If only he’d helped her! But no. At most, he’d take the stroller out for an hour. In that time, she’d wash, clean, and figure out lunch. Thankfully, she had enough breast milk—no need to spend on formula. But the rent and utilities still had to be paid. If it weren’t for her mother, who herself had been spinning like a squirrel in a wheel ever since her own husband left, they wouldn’t have survived. Her mom sent modest packages and transferred money to her card. Her mom saw that everything rested on her daughter’s shoulders. But she didn’t interfere—she didn’t want her daughter to end up a divorcée. In short, she wasn’t living—she was surviving. And she counted the days until her son could go to preschool, and she could return to work.
One day, her husband came back from another endless “job hunt” and pitched an idea: what if she became a surrogate mother? He’d looked into it: she met all the criteria. Especially since she’d already given birth to a healthy child without complications. And surrogacy paid very well. They could even buy an apartment. A small one, but their own. She didn’t agree right away. The temptation was strong. But something felt wrong: she’d carry a child, and even if it wasn’t hers, how could it not be? She’d be connected to it for nine whole months. Her husband brushed off her arguments. He said if he had the chance, he’d do anything for their family. She no longer believed in his “do anything.” But their little boy was running around, growing up knowing he had a mom and a dad. She couldn’t bear the thought of destroying that. So, she agreed.
They signed the contract in the presence of a lawyer and the chief doctor with an older couple, after she passed all the tests. The surrogacy fee was specified. She received an advance right away. And she went straight to the bank: she insisted they not touch the money until the child was born and the rest of the payment was made. All for the apartment. Her husband realized he couldn’t change her mind. And he even became attentive and caring: the final payment and their own apartment loomed ahead. She carried the child without complications, just like the first time. And she gave birth easily to a girl—smaller in weight and height than her own son. But by medical standards, the baby scored perfectly on the Apgar scale. The happy parents paid her the next day. She felt fine. And again, she had plenty of milk. But they didn’t bring the baby to her to feed—that was the biological parents’ condition. She quietly cried: she felt sorry for the little girl she’d never see again, sorry for herself, deprived of that tiny life…
When she came home, there was her son, the hassle of finding a suitable apartment, viewing properties… Somehow, the sorrow seemed to fade. But only seemed to. Because she couldn’t help looking into strollers, hoping she might catch a glimpse of the girl she’d given birth to. She had to change jobs—she couldn’t explain that she’d given birth to a child that wasn’t hers, that she’d essentially sold it. She found a new job. It started at 7:00 a.m. Her son’s preschool opened at 7:00 a.m. too. But the director accommodated a group of parents who also worked early—one teacher came in at 6:30 a.m. to watch the early birds until their groups opened. The new job was good because she could pick up part of the second shift and work until 6:30 p.m. That way, she could drop her son off at preschool and pick him up. Her husband could’ve done it. But he was tired from his job searches. He looked for work with admirable persistence. Just with zero results most of the time. But she’d grown used to being the breadwinner. She remembered her mother’s words: a divorced woman is barely a woman at all. Not much time passed before her husband came up with another idea:
— Why don’t you become a surrogate again?
She thought she’d misheard. Again? Carry a child, convincing herself it’s not hers. Just carry it for nine months, give birth—not an easy or painless process—and then what? Get paid like it’s storage and forget about it?
She wanted to tell him she still remembered that little girl, bought flowers on her birthday, silently wished her well. Tried so hard to believe she was okay. But how do you shake the feeling that she’s yours too? She wanted to say it, but bit her tongue: he wouldn’t understand. If he did, he wouldn’t have suggested it again. But he was already excited:
— We could buy a car. Go to the countryside, to the beach… Freedom! I’ve had a driver’s license since the army. No need to pay for driving school. And if you want, you can learn too. Theory at the school, and I’ll help with the practical.
Then, for extra persuasion, he called their son:
— Tommy, want us to have our own car? Want it? Then ask Mommy!
And Tommy buried his face in her knees:
— Mommy! Let’s get a car! When I grow up, I’ll drive you around!
Turning her face away from her son, she said:
— Okay…
And her husband immediately started making plans. He’d find a suitable couple himself. Check if they could pay. And settle on a price—this time, they’d ask for more. When he found the right couple, they’d all meet.
Satisfied, he went off to watch TV. She bathed their son, put him to bed, and sat by his side. She wanted to scream! Didn’t her husband understand what torture it was to give up a child that felt like hers? No, he didn’t understand…
She’d have to change jobs again—she couldn’t find the words to explain to people she’d be a storage unit for someone else’s child. And not someone else’s—she knew that for sure. That little girl still lived in her heart. But even this time, she couldn’t stand up to her husband.
A couple of days later, he said he’d found a suitable couple. They were about their age. Well-off. Both wanted a child but knew the verdict: they couldn’t have children because of the wife. The decision to use a surrogate was hard-won, carefully considered. And the woman who could help them was impeccable, the doctor confirmed. He agreed to be the third party in the deal—an informal agreement, no formalities. Cheaper that way. The doctor and her husband split the usual formal fee evenly, but he didn’t tell her that.
When she met the couple whose child she’d carry, she couldn’t help but notice how different they were. The husband—calm, tactful, respectful to everyone. The wife—all in trendy clothes, capricious, flashing fake smiles one moment, fake tears the next. And her husband comforting her…
Well, that was their business. Hers was to keep her word and carry the child. What it would cost her heart to give it up was no one’s concern. She’d signed up for it herself. The doctor performed the familiar procedure again. Successfully: tests and an ultrasound showed two embryos developing—a set of twins. The future father was openly thrilled. His wife’s joy seemed forced.
As the surrogate mother figured out, the young woman didn’t really want a child. Let alone twins. She even doubted the woman wanted a child at all. But in front of her husband, she played along.
Then events took a bizarre turn. When the pregnancy passed six months, the biological mother arranged a meeting with the surrogate in a café. She came alone. And said they’d decided to give up the children. The advance could stay with the surrogate. But after the birth, they wouldn’t take the kids—they’d changed their minds. She could leave them at the hospital. Or keep them.
She didn’t know what to say. She’d suspected something was off from the start. But to abandon their own children like that? She came home and told her husband everything. And oh, did he get mad! The used foreign car he’d picked out—still in good shape and nice-looking—was slipping away. He started yelling, ready to confront them.
He went the next morning. But no one was home. The concierge said they’d flown off for a vacation on some islands. No idea when they’d be back. Her husband came home. What a scene! He shouted and cursed without restraint. He was dead set against her even touching the twins after birth. Said she should sign the refusal right away. She didn’t know what to do. And suddenly, she felt something was wrong.
She held out until morning. Called her mom. Her mom arrived and learned what her daughter had agreed to. And that it was her husband’s idea. Not the first time, either. For once, her mom didn’t say to obey her husband. She took her grandson, and they got her to the hospital. There, the doctors said for a safer delivery, she’d need to stay on bed rest for the last month. Knowing her mom would care for her son, she agreed. Her husband didn’t visit her once…
Meanwhile, on the islands where the biological parents were vacationing, their own drama unfolded. The future father, unaware his wife had already rejected the children without telling him, kept wanting to return home. By his calculations, the surrogate was due soon. Twins could mean complications, maybe even a C-section. He suggested cutting the vacation short. But his wife was in her element: nights at the bar, new outfits daily, massages, beauty treatments, flirting left and right…
— Why the rush? — his tipsy wife blurted out. — There won’t be any kids! I told the surrogate we’re not taking them. She can keep them or leave them at the hospital. And anyway, if I need to, I’ll have my own kids. I could’ve long ago. But why ruin my figure?
Her words stunned him. Then enraged him. His restraint and tact vanished: he interrogated her ruthlessly. And learned a lot. She’d been taking strong contraceptives the whole time because, as she said, she wasn’t about to ruin her figure with pregnancy. Maybe someday. She admitted she’d struck a deal—not a cheap one—with the hospital’s chief doctor from the start of their marriage to fake her infertility diagnosis. Maybe if he hadn’t been so insistent, talking about kids every day, she’d have had one in five or ten years. And told him medicine worked miracles. But he was relentless, so she agreed. But twins? No way! She’d look ridiculous pushing a double stroller. Her true face was revealed…
He packed his bags and headed to the airport. Luck was on his side: he found a ticket. The next evening, he was at the hospital. He convinced them to let him into the surrogate’s room. When he entered, she turned away—she had no desire to talk. What was there to say? That her husband left her because of the refused children? That she was left with a child and no job? That she’d been lying there for almost a month, unsure what to do next? She wasn’t one to yell or make a scene—she and the twins’ biological father were alike in that. And she didn’t want to cry or play the pity card. So she just turned away, making it clear they had nothing to discuss.
But he thought otherwise. He asked her to listen. And told her his wife had deceived him for years, claiming infertility while taking contraceptives. She’d agreed to surrogacy out of fear he’d leave her—he wanted kids so badly. Though he hadn’t planned to divorce his “infertile” wife, she thought he might eventually. That didn’t suit her—she wasn’t about to lose her cushy, carefree life. So she hatched a plan: secretly tell the surrogate to abandon the twins at the hospital, especially since there were no formal surrogacy papers. While convincing him to vacation before the babies arrived, she met the surrogate alone and announced they were backing out. He found out by chance, urging her to fly home to be with the kids from their first moments. In a fit of anger, realizing her plans were crumbling, she spilled everything.
— I know you’re hurt. But I swear, this was all done behind my back. Please, don’t turn away from me, don’t push me away! — he pleaded with the surrogate.
And she believed him. He was like her, a victim of deception in this mess. And he was no luckier with his wife than she was with her husband. Now he visited her twice a day. And it was during one of his visits that her contractions started. She bit her lips, too shy to groan from the pain. But he understood. And dared to stroke her hair, saying in a trembling voice:
— Everything will be okay!
And she believed that too.
She gave birth to the twins naturally. Everything was set for a C-section, but she asked to try a natural birth. The doctors, after consulting, agreed. They’d be there if anything went wrong. This time, the labor was long. The twins—two girls—decided their own order of arrival. And both came into the world with a small gap between them. She couldn’t hold back: she groaned and screamed a couple of times. And he, dressed in sterile scrubs, stayed by her side, holding her hand. She knew he helped her through it…
That evening, he came to her beaming. He’d already seen the girls—they let him peek at them in the nursery. He thanked her with such warmth and gratitude that she had no doubt: yes, this was a father. A real, happy one. And she was glad for the little girls.
They prepared her and the girls for discharge. And then he came again, his face troubled:
— I’m so afraid of doing something wrong, of harming the girls! First, I guess I need to find a nanny. And maybe a wet nurse. I saw—well, spied—how you fed them… I’m not sure even a wet nurse could keep their appetite. I’m scared to ask, but will you consider living with us?
She was stunned: how? In what role?
But she said something else:
— I have my son, Tommy. He’s almost six. He’s with my mom in another town now. I miss him so much!
— Then let Tommy and your mom live with us! My lawyers are handling the divorce from my ex-wife. She won’t step foot in my house again. And you can bring your husband too. Besides my city apartment, I have a big house five miles outside town. There’s room for everyone. The girls will be better off with you, — he said.
At the mention of her husband, she flinched:
— I’m divorcing my husband too. You know, this surrogacy thing was his idea… And when he heard your wife was refusing the kids, he said they’re not his either, and I could throw them out for all he cared… I’ve decided, if that’s how it is, I won’t abandon the girls. I’ll raise them myself… But if my son, my mom, and I won’t be a burden, I agree. Just help me with the divorce, since you have lawyers. I don’t want to see my ex again…
— No problem! Give me your marriage certificate. You’ll sign a statement the lawyer prepares. You won’t even have to go to court—they’ll handle the divorce without you. I promise. Now, one more thing: call your mom, tell her and Tommy to get ready. I’ll pick them up myself.
And so it was resolved. When she arrived with the twins at the beautiful, spacious house, Tommy and her mom were there to greet her. Her son hugged and kissed her, then immediately started looking at the girls. And said:
— My sisters are so pretty! What are their names?
The adults, hiding their awkwardness, said in unison that the girls didn’t have names yet.
— Tommy, what would you name them?
Tommy, proud to be asked, replied:
— Gotta see which name fits who.
For almost a week, the girls remained nameless. She could tell them apart instantly. Tommy somehow knew who was who. Then her mom started to tell them apart too. Only their father couldn’t figure out which was which.
— They’re like two peas in a pod, — he said, embarrassed.
Finally, he couldn’t take it. He called Tommy out to the porch and asked:
— How do you tell them apart, buddy? Teach me!
— Easy! — Tommy said proudly. — Look: Polly smiles more with the right corner of her mouth, and Ally with the left.
— Oh, man! — he laughed. — So you’ve already picked names! They’re beautiful! I like them. Let’s just check with Mom.
— You adults are weird! — Tommy said. — Mom says we should ask you. What’s there to ask? This is Ally, and this is Polly!
He was cautious about openly rejoicing in how his big house now felt alive. Care became the priority. First for the girls and Tommy. Then for each adult. Care showed even in how they watered the flowers and tended the rock garden—they got a second life. No one minded when Tommy called the girls his sisters. It felt right. But the adults still faced a question: who were they to each other? Only separate bedrooms kept them from being a true couple—a line they hadn’t crossed. Though each day, it grew harder to hide their growing attachment.
But both carried the scars of bitter pasts and disappointments. So they didn’t rush. Yet the resolution was inevitable: they got married. And instantly became a big family. Where the eldest son was always ready to protect Ally and Polly. Where Grandma was respected. And the parents could finally stop hiding their happiness. Somehow, those who’d made their past marriages miserable found out. First, his ex-wife came, begging forgiveness for abandoning the children. They politely escorted her to the gate, warning that her next visit might end with the police. Then her ex-husband showed up, full of remorse. For the first time, she felt no pity for him: she pictured him insisting she “throw out” those precious babies, and she simply didn’t want to see him.
Even Tommy barely remembered him as his father—too few good memories remained.
Thanks to Grandma, they started calling their house “The Little Tower.” And as Polly and Ally grew, they’d carefully list everyone who lived in their “tower,” making sure not to miss anyone—they loved them all. And isn’t that the truest sign of a happy family?
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