When I agreed to co-parent with my ex, Stan, I thought we could be mature adults. I thought we’d share the responsibilities, support each other, and raise our babies with respect and love. What I didn’t expect was to be treated like a surrogate—not by Stan, but by his new partner, Ursula.
At first, things felt calm. Stan and I hadn’t been together long—just three months—and when we broke up, it wasn’t messy.
He took me to a coffee shop, looking all serious, and said, “I’ve been talking to Ursula again. I think we’ve got unfinished business, Nikki. And to be honest, I just want to make sure she’s not the one who got away.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw anything. I just smiled politely when the waiter dropped off my baked cheesecake and said, “I get it. You have to see this through. Not a problem.”
Stan looked confused. “Aren’t you… upset?”
I shrugged. “I am a little sad, but let’s face it, Stan—we’ve only been together for three months. And I’m not Ursula. So we owe it to ourselves to see what the world has to offer.”
He nodded, ordered the check, and that was it. We went our separate ways.
But life wasn’t done with us yet.
Two weeks later, I was staring at two pink lines on a test. Then I went to the doctor.
Twins.
I called Stan.
There was a pause on the line—then he laughed. Not like a villain, not cruelly. But with this stunned, breathless joy.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Twins?! Nikki! This is… this is incredible.”
“You’re actually happy about this?”
“Yes! I am! These are two innocent babies who deserve the entire world!”
I found out later Ursula had fertility issues. And Stan had always wanted kids. So for them, this was like a miracle.
He told me getting back together was not an option—but he wanted to be involved. Ursula? She “just wanted to support the process.”
Right.
Support meant something completely different in their world.
Because soon after that, Ursula wanted to meet me. Face-to-face.
They both came over to my apartment, acting like realtors scoping out a place they didn’t like. Ursula barely glanced at me before launching into a speech.
“We want a home birth,” she said like she was closing a deal. “Formula feeding only. That way we can split custody from day one, you understand? And the babies will call me Mama. You’ll be Mommy. It’ll help avoid confusion.”
I just… stared.
Stan sat next to her, eating the brownies I’d baked at midnight because cravings don’t care about drama. He didn’t say a word. He just kept nodding like she was giving him IKEA instructions.
That’s when I knew. He wasn’t going to stop her. He wasn’t even going to slow her down.
“You’re not serious,” I said. My voice sounded flat even to me.
Ursula smiled—one of those fake, TV-show grins that never reach the eyes.
“It’s important to co-parent with intention,” she said, like she’d read it off a Pinterest quote board.
My own home felt strange. Too small. Too tight. Like I didn’t belong in it anymore.
So I stood up, walked to the door, and opened it without saying a word.
They looked confused, but they left. Stan glanced back once—I didn’t return the look.
The moment the door clicked shut, I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath the whole time. Her vanilla-amber perfume stuck to the air like a bad dream.
I knew, in that moment—this wouldn’t be some peaceful co-parenting journey.
This was going to be war.
And I was done being polite.
After that, Ursula began texting every single day.
“Are you walking enough?”
“You should skip yoga and try prenatal acupuncture.”
“Have you eaten the right kind of fish?”
She sent baby name ideas. Nursery paint swatches. Articles about twins. Rants about her job not offering maternity leave.
“It’s so unfair, Nikki,” she wrote. “I get it, you’re carrying the twins. But planning everything is so exhausting.”
Eventually, I stopped replying.
Then one day, out of nowhere, she scheduled a genetics consultation—without telling me. It was about family medical history. I expected Stan to come.
Nope. Ursula showed up alone. And she tried to answer everything like she was the one pregnant.
The counselor had to redirect her. Twice.
At the 20-week ultrasound, only one guest was allowed. Stan asked if I could bring Ursula instead of him.
I stared at him.
“She’s really invested in this, Nikki,” he said. “She’s excited to play a part.”
I snapped.
“I don’t care how invested she is, Stan. This isn’t a group project. I’m growing two humans, not building a damn IKEA bunk bed.”
Then I made my pregnancy public—just one peaceful photo of me, glowing, with a gentle smile.
A few hours later, Ursula posted her announcement: a glittery reel with pink and blue balloons.
“Expecting twins! The non-traditional way. Feeling so blessed!”
I hadn’t even found out the genders yet.
Then she hosted a baby shower.
I wasn’t invited.
But that still wasn’t the worst part.
Late March. I was 24 weeks pregnant, ankles swollen, folding tiny onesies on the couch. I was mid-episode on a home renovation show when I heard a knock.
A loud one.
I opened the door—and my stomach twisted.
It was Julie, Ursula’s mother. And behind her? Ursula, with her full makeup face and a coffee cup in hand like she was visiting a friend, not ambushing a pregnant woman.
“No text? No call?” I asked, arms over my belly.
“This won’t take long,” Ursula said like she was chairing a meeting.
Julie stepped forward. “We’ve been talking. And… we think it makes sense.”
“What makes sense?”
Julie gave me a syrupy smile. “For you to give one of the babies to Ursula.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?! Are you crazy?”
Ursula rolled her eyes. “You already have two. It’s only fair.”
Fair.
Like this was some game show. Like I won too many prizes and needed to share.
I could’ve yelled. I could’ve broken something.
Instead, I smiled sweetly. “Oh, you want one of the babies? Okay. I can agree.”
They exchanged looks, shocked.
“What do you want?” Ursula asked, cautious.
I tilted my head. “I want you to officially sign up as a surrogate. For my future dog.”
“What?” she blinked.
“You know. Carry it for nine months. Natural birth. No epidural. Breastfeed it too. That’s only fair, right? Life for a life?”
Julie gasped. Ursula’s mouth fell open.
“That’s not the same thing,” Ursula snapped.
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s not the same. Because a child isn’t a pet. Or a handbag. Or a prize. They’re my children. And you, Ursula, are nothing to them except their father’s girlfriend.”
Dead silence.
I stepped closer and said, “Come near me again uninvited, and I’ll have a restraining order so fast your ‘non-traditional family’ won’t know what hit it.”
Then I smiled.
“Have a nice day, ladies.”
And shut the door in their faces.
I grabbed my phone and texted Stan:
“Your girlfriend and her mother just came to my house to demand one of my twins. If I see either of them again, I’m getting a lawyer and full custody. You’ll get supervised visits only. Think carefully about who you tie your life to.”
No reply.
The next morning, I met with a lawyer. They told me custody agreements could only happen after birth—but if I left the state before birth, then my new state would be the legal home.
I packed in silence, found a rental three hours away, and left within a week. No contact with Stan. Only my mom knew where I was.
It was peaceful. For a while.
Until Ursula got a screenshot of my original post—the one where I shared my story.
And then she showed up at my job.
I work at a learning center. Toddlers. Crayons. Nap mats. Snack breaks.
Ursula lost her mind.
She slashed my tires. Smashed my passenger window. Broke several floor-to-ceiling windows by the playroom. Screamed at the top of her lungs.
“You stole my life, Nikki!”
Police came. She was arrested. The charges?
Criminal damage. Trespassing. Child endangerment.
The next morning, I filed for an order of protection. The judge took one look at my baby bump and said:
“Good luck, missy. I’m going to be a grandfather soon, too. I can’t wait!”
He approved it on the spot.
I filed one against Stan, too.
Then I moved again—this time across the country, with my mother. Started over.
Stan and Ursula tried reaching out. Emails. Fake accounts. Weird messages.
I pressed charges again.
Restraining orders followed.
Now, I live in a quiet apartment. It smells like lemon soap, wooden floors, and midnight brownies. No text messages at midnight. No strange footsteps. Just peace.
Sometimes I think back. Did that really all happen?
But then I feel the kicks. The stretch under my ribs. And I remember—this is real.
They’re mine. These two babies. All mine.
And I remember what I walked away from.
And how Stan walked away first.
I haven’t picked names yet. I’m not rushing. But I do know one thing:
They’ll have my last name.
And that’s what matters most.