THE NANNY

day at school, my backpack heavy with textbooks and the weight of everything else on my shoulders, as I headed to work from school. The only thing ke

that greeted me stopped me cold. Mom was slumped on the flo

ide. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn't respond. M

m onto a stretcher. I followed the ambulance in a haze, my mind racing with fea

e to pace the waiting area with my heart pounding in my chest. Minutes felt

asked, glancing a

t's me. Ho

tely. The cancer has really eaten deeply into her cells and if nothing's done wit

h dropped.

the initial

to my name, let alone $5,000. I tried to explain,

y is clear. Without payment, we

th tears. I sat down in the waiting area, gripping my phone like it mi

te. The thought of carrying someone else's child had felt unthinkable just days ago. But now,

r high-profile clients. My heart skipped when I saw hundreds of submissions and there, I made a quick prayer

nything to save my mom. Even if it meant changing my life forever. Two days after I submitted my application, I received an email fr

riorating condition, the crushing weight of uncertainty-I felt a strange sense of relief. T

ecting the wealth of its clients. A calm, confident woman named Dr. Evelyn Hart introduced herself as Gera

r clipboard. "The embryo has been created using Mr. Thompson's genetic ma

is wasn't about me or my feelings. It was a transaction, plain and simple. I nodded,

ic that day with a strange mix of hope and apprehension. If this worked, it would be the solut

ct guidelines for my health. Gerald Thompson, however, remained an enigma. I hadn't met him, hadn't spoken to him, and on

But I didn't let myself dwell on it. This wasn't about him or me. It was about the money, the

utine checkup, Dr. Hart confirm

e said, her smile warm and pr

disbelief and relief wash

help but feel a small flicker of something else-something I hadn't expected. Responsibil

held, but one thing was certa