Chapter 2 Two

• The restaurant lobby smells like grease and industrial cleaner. I push the door open and step inside, straightening my blouse one more time. The floor is sticky under my shoes.
• A teenage cashier points me to a small waiting area where three other people sit clutching resumes. They all look as desperate as I feel.
• I take the last empty chair. The plastic is cracked, digging into my thigh.
• A woman about my age glances at me, then quickly looks away. A man in his forties stares at his phone. A college kid bounces his leg nervously.
• "Competitive," the college kid says, forcing a laugh.
• I nod but don't engage. I need to focus.
• The resume in my hand has too many gaps. Too many short-term positions. But I've practiced explaining them. I've rehearsed my answers.
• "Thompson?" A sharp voice cuts through my thoughts.
• I look up. A woman stands in a doorway, clipboard in hand. Her name tag says "Linda, Manager." Her face says "I've already made up my mind about you."
• "Yes," I say, standing quickly. "Ava Thompson."
• "This way."
• She turns without waiting. I follow her down a narrow hallway to a small office. The desk is cluttered with papers and fast-food promotional items.
• "Sit," she says, pointing to a chair.
• I sit. My back straight. Hands folded in my lap. The picture of professionalism.
• Linda doesn't look at me as she flips through my resume.
• "You've had a lot of jobs," she says.
• "I'm adaptable," I reply, just like I practiced. "I learn quickly in different environments."
• She makes a small noise in her throat. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff.
• "And why did you leave your last position?"
• "The restaurant closed," I say. It's true. I don't mention that it closed three months ago.
• "And before that?" She looks up finally, her eyes sharp.
• "I was looking for something with more growth potential."
• "Growth potential," she repeats. "And now you want to work here? Not much growth potential flipping burgers."
• I keep my smile in place. "I value stability. Your company has been in business for over fifty years."
• She nods slowly. "Your resume says you worked at Gentry's Steakhouse before that. Why'd you leave?"
• The question I was fearing. I swallow hard.
• "It wasn't a good fit," I say carefully.
• "Not a good fit," she repeats. Something changes in her expression. A hardening around her eyes. "That's interesting."
• My heart beats faster. She knows something. I can see it in her face.
• "I'm a hard worker," I say quickly. "I'm reliable, punctual, and I work well under pressure."
• "I'm sure you are," she says. She sets my resume down and leans back in her chair. "Ms. Thompson, let me be direct. We've had some calls about you."
• The room suddenly feels too warm. My collar too tight.
• "Calls?" My voice comes out steady. I'm proud of that.
• "Yes. Calls warning us about your... history."
• There it is. The thing that follows me everywhere.
• "I'm not sure what you mean," I say, though I know exactly what she means.
• "I think you do." Linda tilts her head. "We're a family establishment. We can't afford to hire someone with your kind of reputation."
• "My reputation?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "What exactly have you heard about me?"
• "Enough." She picks up my resume and slides it into a folder. "We won't be moving forward with your application."
• The rejection hits me like a physical blow. I've been here before, but it never gets easier.
• "Whatever you heard, it's not true," I say. My hands are trembling now. I clench them to hide it.
• "Three different people called, Ms. Thompson. Where there's smoke, there's fire."
• "That's not fair. You don't even know me." My voice rises slightly.
• "I know enough." She stands up. "We're done here."
• I want to scream. I want to tell her that she's wrong, that the rumors aren't true, that I'm being punished for something I didn't do.
• But I've tried that before. It never works.
• I stand up too. My legs feel unsteady.
• "Thank you for your time," I manage to say.
• Professional. Always professional, even when they're not.
• Linda is already looking at her computer screen, dismissing me entirely.
• I walk out of the office. Past the waiting applicants who watch me with curious eyes. Through the lobby where customers eat their cheap burgers, unaware of the small tragedy unfolding beside them.
• Outside, the cold air hits my face. I try to push back the tears threatening to spill.
• Another rejection. Another dead end.
• I walk to the bus stop on legs that barely hold me. The humiliation burns in my chest, hot and familiar.
• It's always the same. Someone hears the rumors. Someone makes a call. Someone decides I'm not worth the risk.
• And I'm left with nothing.
• The bus won't come for twenty minutes. I sit on the bench and stare at the restaurant sign, bright and cheerful, promising jobs and opportunities to everyone but me.
• My phone buzzes. A reminder for another interview tomorrow. Another chance to go through this all again.
• I almost delete it. What's the point?
• But I don't. I can't afford to give up.
• Not when the eviction notice is waiting for me at home.
• Back at my apartment, it feels colder than when I left. Empty. I throw my bag onto the couch and sink down beside it, not bothering to take off my coat.
• Another failure. Another rejection. How many more can I take before I break completely?
• My phone buzzes with a text from the electric company. Final warning before disconnection.
• Perfect. Just perfect.
• I force myself to get up and check my mailbox. Bills, probably. More bad news.
• I unlock the small metal box in the hallway. Inside is a single envelope. Thick, cream-colored paper. My name and address printed in elegant font. No return address.
• Strange. I never get mail like this.
• I take it back inside and stare at it. My first instinct is to throw it away. Nothing good comes in fancy envelopes with no return address. It's probably a scam. Or worse, another reminder of my financial failure.
• But curiosity wins. I tear it open.
• Inside is a letter on expensive letterhead. "Romano Fertility Institute" at the top in gold embossing.
• "Dear Ms. Thompson," it begins. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a potential candidate for our exclusive surrogacy program."
• I stop reading. Surrogacy? Me?
• I scan the rest of the first paragraph. Something about my medical records showing I'm an ideal candidate. Something about a "generous compensation package."
• My heart beats faster. I read more carefully now.
• "Our client is seeking a surrogate mother for his child and is willing to offer $100,000 for your services."
• I nearly drop the letter. $100,000? That can't be right.
• I read it again. The same number stares back at me.
• "The process would require a nine-month commitment, during which all your medical expenses would be covered. Housing would be provided. Additional stipends for nutrition and clothing would be supplied monthly."
• This has to be a joke. Or a scam. Things like this don't happen to people like me.
• I flip to the second page. More details about the medical procedures, legal protections, confidentiality agreements.
• It looks legitimate. Too legitimate to be a scam.
• "If you are interested in pursuing this opportunity, please call the number below to schedule an initial consultation."
• I set the letter down. My hands are shaking.
• $100,000. Enough to pay off all my debts. Enough to start over somewhere new. Enough to finally escape the rumors that follow me everywhere.
• But carrying someone else's baby? Being a surrogate?
• It feels wrong somehow. Like selling myself. Like giving up control of my body.
• "It's just nine months," I whisper to the empty room. "Nine months for a new life."
• I pick up the letter again. Read the fine print. No crazy requirements. No hidden catches that I can see.
• I look around my apartment. The peeling paint. The dripping faucet. The eviction notice.
• What choice do I really have?
• I could keep applying for jobs that will never hire me. Keep running from the rumors. Keep waiting for the day when they finally kick me out onto the street.
• Or I could do this. One big sacrifice for a fresh start.
• "What would you do, Mom?" I ask the air. "What's the right choice here?"
• No answer comes. Just the sound of the neighbor's TV through the thin walls.
• I pick up my phone and stare at it. The number from the letter seems to burn into my brain.
• Call or don't call. Change my life or keep struggling.
• My finger hovers over the keypad.
• What if it's real? What if this is my one chance?
• What if it's not? What if it's something worse than it seems?
• "I have nothing to lose," I say finally.
• I dial the number before I can change my mind.
• It rings three times. I almost hang up.
• "Romano Fertility Institute," a crisp, professional voice answers.
• "Hi," I say, my own voice shaking. "My name is Ava Thompson. I received a letter about your surrogacy program."
• "Ah, Ms. Thompson. We've been expecting your call."
• Something about the way she says it makes my skin crawl. Like they knew I was desperate enough to call.
• "I'd like more information," I say, trying to sound confident.
• "Of course. We have an opening for an initial consultation tomorrow at 10 AM. Would that suit you?"
• Tomorrow. So soon.
• "Yes," I hear myself say. "That would be fine."
• "Excellent. The address is in your letter. Please bring identification and be prepared for preliminary medical tests."
• "Medical tests?" My voice rises slightly.
• "Just standard bloodwork and a physical exam. Nothing invasive at this stage."
• At this stage. The implication that more invasive things will come later hangs in the air.
• "Okay," I say. "I'll be there."
• "We look forward to meeting you, Ms. Thompson."
• The call ends. I set my phone down slowly.
• What did I just agree to?
• I look at the letter again. $100,000. A way out of this life.
• Is it worth it?
• The eviction notice catches my eye. The reality of my situation crashes back.
• It doesn't matter if it's worth it. It matters that it's my only option.
• I fold the letter carefully and put it in my bag.
• Tomorrow at 10 AM, I'll find out if this opportunity is my salvation or just another dead end.
• Either way, I'm out of alternatives.