Page 56 of Mafia Pregnancy

I think about my cousin Jennifer, who struggled with fertility for five years before finally having her twins through IVF and remember the joy on her face when she held them for the first time.

Could I create that joy for someone else?

If I could, wouldn't that be worth something? Wouldn't that be better than slowly drowning in minimum wage jobs? It’s not like I’m in any rush to have my own family.

Who can afford it these days, except for those like the people who stay in this hotel?

The elevator deposits me on the third floor, where I work through the rest of my assigned rooms on autopilot.

Each suite tells the same story—wealth so casual it's left carelessly on every surface. A Prada purse forgotten on a chair. An iPad abandoned on unmade sheets. Jewely casually discarded like it doesn’t cost the same as a good used car.

In room 1289, I find a college brochure left on the desk from the Yale MBA program.

The young woman staying here—probably no older than twenty-five—is apparently considering graduate school.

Just for fun, I flip through it, looking at the tuition rates.

One year costs more than I've made in the last five combined.

She'll probably get in, graduate, and land some consulting job that starts at six figures.

The same amount someone would pay me to carry their child for nine months.

By the time midnight rolls around, I'm practically vibrating with a mixture of exhaustion and excitement.

I clock out in the basement employee area, avoiding eye contact with the security guard, who always stares a little too long at the women on the late shift.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that makes my reflection in the bathroom mirror look even worse than usual.

I change out of my uniform in the cramped employee restroom, folding it carefully even though it'll need washing before tomorrow's shift.

My regular clothes, jeans with a hole in the knee I keep meaning to patch and a T-shirt from a concert I went to five years ago, feel like freedom after hours of polyester.

The parking garage is nearly empty at this hour, with just a few cars belonging to the night shift workers and the security staff.

My ten-year-old Honda looks particularly pathetic parked between a new BMW and a Tesla, its paint faded and rust creeping around the wheel wells.

The engine coughs to life on the third try, and I navigate out of the garage into the city streets.

The drive home takes twenty minutes on empty roads, past closed shops and diners serving night workers like me.

I pass the hospital where I applied for a janitorial job last month, only to be told they were looking for someone with more experience.

More experience at what? Scrubbing? I've got plenty of that.

My apartment building squats on a corner in a neighborhood that real estate agents generously call "transitional.

" The front door requires a special combination of lifting and shoving to open, and the elevator has been "temporarily out of service" for the past three months.

I climb the four flights of stairs, my legs protesting every step.

The hallway smells like someone's cooking something with too much grease and not enough vegetables. Mrs. Harlow’s TV blares through thin walls, the sound of a game show mixing with the crying baby in 4C. I fit my key into the lock, jiggling it the way you have to do to make the tumblers catch.

Home. If you can call a studio apartment with water stains on the ceiling and a radiator that clangs all night home.

I drop my purse on the counter that serves as both kitchen workspace and dining table, too tired to care about the pile of bills I've been avoiding.

The red numbers on my microwave clock read 12:47 a.m.

In six hours, I need to be at the café for the morning rush. Six hours to sleep, if I can quiet my mind enough to drift off. Tonight, the exhaustion that usually lets me sleep the moment I hit the pillow can't compete with the possibility that's taken root in my brain.

I pull out my phone and type "EverAfter Surrogacy Clinic" into the search bar.

The website that loads is elegant and minimal, all soft colors and tasteful fonts.

There's no pricing information, of course—places like this don't advertise their rates to just anyone—but there's a contact form for "potential surrogates," asking for basic information and promising complete confidentiality.

I click through to the surrogacy section, reading about their "direct donation" program.

The language is carefully neutral, clinical even, but the implications are clear.

Some intended parents prefer a surrogate who also provides the egg, creating a biological link.

The compensation, it notes delicately, "reflects the additional commitment. "

My finger hovers over the link. This is crazy.

Carrying a stranger's baby for money? What would my mother say if she were still alive?

Then again, Mom worked three jobs to keep us afloat and still died with more debt than savings.

She never got to see anything beyond the inside of factories and office buildings she cleaned at night.

Maybe she'd understand better than anyone.

I set aside the phone and move through my nighttime routine—shower in the bathroom so small I can touch both walls at once, brush teeth with the toothbrush I should have replaced two months ago, and change into pajamas that are really just older, softer versions of my regular clothes.

The face in the mirror looks back at me with tired eyes and hollow cheeks. When did I start looking so worn down?

My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped dinner again.

The cupboard offers its usual selection of ramen noodles, a can of soup that expired last month but is probably still fine, and half a loaf of bread that's getting hard around the edges. I opt for the ramen, not bothering to add anything to fancy it up. It’s just hot water and flavor packet, eaten while standing over the sink and scrolling through my phone.

The clinic's website draws me back like a magnet. I read through the information for potential surrogates, noting the requirements. Age 21-35? Check. Previous successful pregnancy preferred but not required? No, but maybe they’ll overlook that. It does say not required.

They want college-educated women for the direct donation program. I touch the spot on my wall where my degree hangs. I have a BA in English from State, the debt from which still haunts my credit report. Lot of good it's done me so far, but maybe now it could actually pay off.

Healthy BMI? I'm probably on the thin side from stress and skipped meals, but within range. Non-smoker? Disgusting habit, and easy to avoid even if I didn’t find it distasteful, since I can't afford cigarettes anyway.

No criminal record? Check. "Attractive appearance preferred for direct donation candidates.

" I study my reflection in the black screen of my phone.

I used to be pretty, before the exhaustion settled in permanently.

Good bone structure, my mother used to say. Maybe that still counts for something.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I click on the contact form.

The fields are simple—name, age, contact information, and a brief message about why I'm interested.

There's also a checkbox asking whether I'm interested in traditional surrogacy or direct donation.

My cursor hovers over it for a long moment before I check the box for "open to both options. "

My fingers move across the screen almost without conscious thought.

"My name is Blaire Elliott. I'm 29 years old and interested in learning more about your surrogacy program, including direct donation options. I have a bachelor’s degree in English, am in excellent health, and am looking for an opportunity to change my circumstances while helping someone create their family.

I'm single, have no criminal record, and while I have no previous pregnancies, I’m committed to maintaining a healthy pregnancy. "

I stare at the words, my thumb hovering over the submit button.

Once I send this, there's no taking it back, but what exactly am I taking back?

More years of minimum wage jobs? More nights falling asleep to the sound of my neighbors' arguments and waking up to the nightmare of never having enough?

More hours being cut by corporations that see me as an expense to minimize?

I think about the woman in the cream dress, and how casually she mentioned seven figures.

How she talked about her friend now living in SoHo.

How different could life be with that kind of cushion?

Not just getting by but actually living.

Travel. A reliable car. A real apartment with a bedroom and a kitchen that doesn't double as everything else. The ability to help with Cary’s medical bills.

I hit submit before I can second-guess myself.

The screen confirms my message has been received, and someone will be in contact within 48 hours. I set down the phone with shaking hands, suddenly aware of what I've just done, but underneath the fear, there's genuine hope that maybe I've found a way out.

I crawl into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to my chin.

The radiator clangs its nightly symphony, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails through the streets.

Tonight, these sounds don't keep me awake.

Instead, I drift off thinking about numbers with six or seven figures and a future that doesn't look like my past.

Tomorrow, I'll wake up at 6 a.m. and make coffee for people who don't see me.

I'll smile and take their orders and pretend their complaints about foam art matter in the grand scheme of things, but maybe it won't be forever.

Maybe I've just taken the first step toward a life where I'm more than invisible hands cleaning up other people's messes.

The last thought before sleep claims me isn't about the money though.

It's about the women in the hotel bar, and how they talked about their friend like she'd done something extraordinary.

Not shameful or desperate, but brave. Smart, even.

How they mentioned the Harvard graduate, who made over a million dollars, as if her education and talent finally found their true value.

Maybe I can be brave too. Maybe my degree, gathering dust on the wall, could actually mean something. Maybe being reduced to a commodity isn't degrading if I'm the one setting the price.