I sold my uterus for money and five years later he showed up at my door with our son
“They threatened me.”
“They said you received your full payment and that you didn’t want to hear from us anymore.”
Angry swelled in my chest.
“And you believed them?”
“I had no reason not to.”
That sentence hurt me.
“You lived with me for two months.”
“That doesn’t mean I knew you.”
“But that doesn’t mean I was capable of abandoning the child without looking back.”
She pressed her lips together.
Noah watched the discussion.
I lowered my voice.
“We shouldn’t talk about this in front of him.”
Ethan looked at the child.
“Noah, do you want to watch TV?”
“NO.”
“Do you want to go to the kitchen?”
“NO.”
The boy squeezed his glass.
“I want to know.”
Ethan remained silent.
I sat down across from Noah.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why did you leave?”
That was the question she dreaded most.
“I didn’t leave because I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you come back?”
“Because they told me I’d never be able to see you.”
“Who?”
I looked at Ethan.
He understood.
“My grandmother,” Noah replied.
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
The boy lowered his head.
“She said my mom didn’t love me.”
I felt something inside me break.
“That’s not true.”
Noah didn’t look up.
“I said you took the money and left.”
“I took the money.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
“But not because I didn’t love you.” “So why?”
I took a deep breath.
“My mother was very sick. She needed surgery. I had no money.”
“And I was the price?”
The question came from a child’s mouth.
But it sounded like a sentence.
Ethan had moved.
“Noah.”
“I want to know.”
I looked at him.
I couldn’t lie to him.
But I couldn’t explain something so complicated to him directly either.
“You were never the price,” I said. “The adults made a deal before you even existed.”
“But you agreed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you want me?”
I closed my eyes for a second.
—At first, I didn’t know what I wanted. I was terrified.
—And then?
—Then I felt you move.
Noah lifted his head.
—Did you feel me?
—Yes.
—A lot?
A smile played on my lips.
—Too much.
—Did he kick you?
—At night.
—Did that worry you?
—NO.
Instinctively, I put my hand on my stomach.
—It let me know you were there.
Noah was looking at me.
—So you knew me.
—Before I saw you, yes.
—Did you see me when I was born?
The pain returned.
—Only for a moment.
It was true.
Before I fell completely asleep, I heard crying.
A nurse walked past me, carrying a small body wrapped in a blanket.
I couldn’t touch it.
I couldn’t see his face clearly.
But I could see his dark hair.
“Did you carry me?”
“They wouldn’t let me.”
Noah’s eyes filled with tears.
Ethan turned toward the window.
“I didn’t know either,” he said.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“They wouldn’t let you carry it.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That you didn’t want to see him after the birth.”
I stood up.
“They lied.”
“I know.”
“Since when?”
“For two weeks now.”
The room fell silent.
“What happened two weeks ago?”
Ethan pulled an envelope from inside his jacket.
He left it on the table.
“My mother died.”
The news surprised me.
I felt no sadness.
No satisfaction.
Just a strange distance.
“Before he died, he left a letter.”
“For you?”
“For Noah.”
The boy looked at the envelope.
“I don’t want to read this.”
Ethan watched him.
“You don’t have to do this.”
I looked at the letter.
“What did it say?”
“He admitted to throwing you out of the house.”
“That he threatened to stop your mother’s surgery if you tried to take her child.”
My legs lost strength.
I sat down.
“He also said he intercepted the letters you sent.”
I looked at him.
“What letters?”
“Three.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“I sent over twenty.”
Ethan remained motionless.
“Twenty?”
“For two years.”
“I never received anything.”
“I sent them to the mansion.”
“Then I started sending them to your family’s law firm.”
“Nothing arrived.”
Ethan clenched his fists.
“She only mentioned three.”
“Then he burned or hid the rest.”
Noah began to cry quietly.
He left the glass on the table.
“Everyone lied.”
I walked over.
I didn’t know if I could touch it.
I reached out.
I stopped before I reached his arm.
“Noah, can I hug you?”
He looked at me.
For a few seconds he didn’t answer.
Then he nodded.
I hugged him.
His body was small and stiff.
At first he didn’t lift his arms.
I didn’t hug him too tightly either.
I was afraid I’d scare him.
Then I felt his fingers grip my jacket.
Her forehead rested on my shoulder.
And then she began to sob.
“I thought you didn’t exist.”
Tears blinded me.
“He did.”
“I thought you didn’t love me.”
“I loved you every day.”
“Why didn’t you find me?”
“I tried.”
“Why didn’t you try harder?”
The question pierced me.
Because he was young.
Because I was afraid.
Because his family was powerful.
Because my mother was still sick.
Because with each unanswered letter, I became convinced that perhaps he was happy without me.
Because the shame consumed me.
But all these reasons haunted the child who had grown up without me.
“I should have tried harder,” I said.
Ethan turned away.
“NO.”
I looked at him.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, I was involved.”
“NO.”
His voice was firm.
“My family had the means to hide it. You didn’t.”
Noah pulled away from me a little.
“Can I see you again?”
The question completely broke me.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Also.”
“You promise you won’t disappear?”
I looked him in the eye.
“I promise.”
Ethan intervened.
“Don’t make impulsive promises.”
I turned to him.
“She’s not impulsive.”
“You don’t know his life.”
“He’s my son.”
“Biologically.”
That word fired me up.
“Do you really think so?”
“I think you’ve been gone for five years.”
“Because you kicked me out.”
“And I’ve been raising him for five years.”
“I didn’t say you were a bad father.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“Ethan.”
“You don’t understand their daily routines, their fears, their treatment.”
I remained frozen.
“What treatment?”
Noah lowered his head.
Ethan replied:
“Fear.”
The boy clasped his hands together.
“I don’t like it when people leave.”
I felt another stab wound.
“Since when?”
“Since I was three.”
Ethan crouched down in front of him.
“Noah, it’s not your fault.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t hide.”
The way he spoke to me changed my perception.
Ethan was cold towards me.
But in Noah’s presence, her voice softened.
Not excessively.
In a reserved and cautious way.
“Can I stay here tonight?” Noah asked.
Ethan stiffened.
Me too.
“Noah,” he said, “we didn’t take your things.”
“I can sleep in my clothes.”
“NO.”
“Dad.”
“NO.”
The boy looked at me.
I didn’t want to be the one to confront her father on the first night.
“Noah, your dad’s right. We have to take it slow.”
Her eyes darkened.
“So you don’t want me to stay.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But…”
“Not because I don’t love you. Because I want to do this right.”
Ethan looked at me.
“We can have dinner together tomorrow.”
“All three of you?”
I looked at Ethan.
“If your dad agrees.”
Noah turned to him.
“Do you accept?”
Ethan remained silent.
“Yes.”
The boy barely smiled.
It was a small smile.
But it was the first time I’d seen him.
As they left, Noah paused in the doorway.
“Can I call you Mom?”
I couldn’t speak.
I nodded.
He smiled again.
“Goodnight, Mom.”
The door closed.
I leaned against her.
Then I slid to the ground.
I cried until my chest hurt.
The next morning, I asked for the day off.
I couldn’t concentrate.
At seven o’clock, I received a text from an unknown number.
It was a picture of Noah eating breakfast.
Below, Ethan wrote:
“He asked three times how long until dinner.”
I saved the image.
I opened it over twenty times throughout the day.
At precisely six o’clock, someone knocked on the door.
Noah was carrying a backpack.
“I’m not sleeping here,” he explained. “I just brought things here to show you.”
He walked in.
Ethan was in the back.
She was carrying a bag of food.
“I didn’t know what you were cooking.”
“We could ask for something.”
“Noah has a nut allergy.”
“I’ll remember that.”
