Our washing machine was fourteen years old. It came with the house. Every single load, about halfway through the rinse cycle, it would stop. Just stop. Make a clunking noise and stop. You had to go down to the basement and turn the knob back to the beginning and press start again.

We’d been talking about replacing it for three years.

“A washing machine,” I said. “Now you’re just trying to seduce me.”

He rolled over and looked at me in the dark.

“You keep saying you miss your husband,” he said. “I’m trying to find a way to come home, Hazel.”

I missed him terribly.

I missed the man who used to bring me coffee in bed on Sundays. The man who used to dance with me in the kitchen while the pasta water boiled. The man who used to stay up until one in the morning talking about nothing, just because he liked the sound of my voice.

I didn’t know where he’d gone. But I wanted him back so badly it hurt.

So by the time we sat down to dinner at Graham’s house that Saturday, I was willing to listen.

Graham lived in a modern house on the north side of town. Lots of glass and white walls and very expensive furniture that looked like it would be uncomfortable but wasn’t. There was a fire in a fireplace with no logs, just flames coming out of white stones.

He’d cooked for us himself. Salmon with lemon and herbs, and a salad with pears in it, and little roasted potatoes. He’d set the table with cloth napkins.

He was courteous and soft-spoken all night. He asked about Sophie. He asked about my job at the library. He remembered that I’d once told him, at a Christmas party two years earlier, that my favorite book as a kid was A Wrinkle in Time. He’d bought a copy and had it on his coffee table.

“I reread it,” he said, smiling. “You were right. It holds up.”

I liked him. I really did.

He was gay. That was something everyone at Adam’s company knew; he’d never hidden it. As far as I knew, he was single. He’d never brought anyone to the company parties. He was successful enough that he could afford excellent medical care for a surrogate and a baby. Lawyers. Counselors. Anything.

After dinner, we sat in his living room with cups of decaf coffee. The fire was crackling on its white stones.

He explained that he’d wanted to be a father for a long time. Since he was in his twenties. He’d been looking into surrogacy for almost two years. Agencies. Clinics. He’d talked to other gay dads.

“I know it’s an enormous thing to ask,” he said. “I know it’s not like asking someone to water your plants while you’re on vacation.” He set his coffee cup down. “But Adam has told me so much about you, Hazel. About what kind of mother you are. And I’ve watched you with Sophie at the picnics. I’d trust you with this more than I’d trust a stranger from an agency.”

Then he looked straight at me.

“Would you consider carrying my baby?” he asked.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

I thought about my pregnancy with Sophie.

The appointments. The blood tests. The ultrasounds. The glucose test where you have to drink that awful orange syrup. The exhaustion in the first trimester when I fell asleep at my desk in the library and a fourth grader had to wake me up.

The back pain. The heartburn. Labor. Fourteen hours of it.

And all those months of carrying a child I already loved before she was even born.

Graham was asking me to go through all of that again. Every single bit of it. Knowing that at the end, I wouldn’t get to keep the baby. That I’d hand it over to someone else. That someone else would get the first smile and the first word and the first steps.

I glanced over at Adam.

He was sitting on the other end of the couch, watching me. Waiting. His coffee cup was in his hands, and he wasn’t drinking it.

“I can’t promise anything,” I said. “It’s a huge decision. I’d need to think about it. A lot.”

“Of course,” Graham said right away. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect an answer tonight. I wouldn’t expect an answer this month. Take whatever time you need.”

He didn’t say a single word about Adam’s promotion. All night. Not one.

He only talked about wanting a child. About what kind of father he wanted to be. About reading to a kid at bedtime. About teaching a kid to ride a bike.

He seemed so sincere about wanting to be a father.

That reassured me. It made it feel less like a business deal and more like what it was supposed to be. One person helping another person build a family.

On the drive home, Adam kept asking what I thought.

“What did you think of him?”

“He’s nice.”

“He is nice, right? I told you he was nice.”

“He’s very nice, Adam.”

“So what are you thinking?”

I looked out the window at the dark streets going by.

“I’m thinking pregnancy isn’t a favor,” I said. “It isn’t like picking somebody up from the airport. It’s nine months of my body. It’s my health. It’s Sophie having a mom who’s exhausted and sick for a year.”

“I know,” Adam said. “I know it is. You’d be doing something extraordinary. Something most people would never do.”

“And if I don’t?”

He stared straight through the windshield.

For a long time, he didn’t say anything.

“Then I guess we just keep trying to make things work,” he said finally.

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded defeated. Like a man who’d been carrying something heavy for a long time and had just been told he’d have to keep carrying it forever.

I reached across the console and took his hand.

He didn’t pull it away. But he didn’t squeeze back, either.

I didn’t decide right away. I want that to be clear.

I didn’t just say yes.

First, I met with a counselor. Graham’s clinic required it. A psychologist who specialized in surrogacy, a woman in her sixties named Dr. Lin, with short white hair and very kind eyes. We met three times. She asked me about my pregnancy with Sophie. About my marriage. About my support system. About how I would feel at the end, handing a baby over.

“Some women feel grief,” she said. “Even when they’re completely sure. Even when they’re happy for the parents. It’s normal. I want you to know that before you start.”