Two weeks after Noah came home from the hospital, I sat in the waiting room of Portland Fertility Center, staring at a magazine about pregnancy and wondering if this was what selling your soul felt like.
The clinic was all soothing pastels and inspirational quotes about the miracle of life. Other women sat around me, some with partners, some alone, all of us united in the complicated business of creating babies.
None of them, I was pretty sure, were there to carry a child for the man who'd already given them one without knowing it.
"Elena Hart?"
A nurse in pink scrubs smiled at me from the doorway. "Dr. Martinez is ready for you."
I followed her down a hallway lined with photos of babies—the success stories of this place where science helped love find a way. Each chubby-cheeked face s
