I always imagined my sister Claire and I growing old side by side—sharing recipes, swapping costumes,

finishing each other’s rants. Claire was polished, 38, always composed. I was 34, messy, loud, and full

of little fingerprints—Liam’s questions, Sophie’s whispered beliefs in butterflies. My life was chaos, but it was full.

When Claire married Ethan, I was happy for them. They had the perfect house and an empty nursery.

Years of trying for a child had dimmed Claire’s brightness. IVF cycles, miscarriages, and hormone treatments left quiet cracks behind her eyes.

So when she asked me to be their surrogate, I said yes immediately. We did it carefully—doctors, lawyers,

family questions—but hope rose like a dawn I didn’t want to miss. It felt right in a way I couldn’t explain.

The pregnancy was kind. Nausea, swollen feet, cravings—but no emergencies. Claire attended every appointment,

researched vitamins, and brought smoothies. Ethan painted the nursery. Every ultrasound photo went straight to their fridge, anchored by a tiny star magnet.

I felt every flutter like a promise. I told Claire motherhood is exhausting but transformative. She worried; I reassured her. We waited together.

Nora arrived to tears and joy. Claire and Ethan held her, whispered praises. The next morning, they

buckled her into the car seat with cautious excitement. But by day five, calls went unanswered.

On the sixth morning, a wicker basket on my porch held Nora, wrapped in pink, with a note: “We didn’t want

a baby like this. She’s your problem now.” She had a congenital heart defect. I called my mom, we went to the hospital, and I promised, “She has me.”

The months that followed were full of paperwork, sleepless nights, emergency custody, and surgery. Five years later,

Nora thrives—joyful, strong, a reminder that love is a daily choice. I gave her life. She gave mine meaning. The best kind of justice is love that refuses to quit.