My wife told me she was going to become a surrogate for $70,000 so we could finally afford a house P2

For most of my life, I believed that if a man worked hard enough, his family would eventually catch a break.

I wasn’t afraid of long hours, frozen crawl spaces, or jobs that left rust under my fingernails for days. Plumbing wasn’t glamorous, but it paid our bills, and I took pride in leaving every house better than I found it.

What I couldn’t seem to fix was my own.

Every raise vanished into rent, groceries, daycare, or another repair on the used minivan. No matter how carefully Renee and I planned, our savings account always looked like it was holding its breath.

My wife never blamed me.

That almost made it worse.

Renee had a way of making hard seasons feel temporary. When our landlord raised the rent again, she folded the notice, tucked it into the kitchen drawer, and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

When the water heater failed three days before Christmas, she helped me mop the floor, kissed my cheek, and laughed because we’d always wanted hardwood instead of stained carpet.

She carried hope easily.

I carried guilt.

Our son, Eli, had just turned two, and every evening he dragged me toward the narrow strip of grass behind our rental with his plastic soccer ball tucked under one arm. The poor kid could take three running steps before he reached the fence.

One night, he pointed toward the neighbors’ big backyard, where two boys were chasing each other through a sprinkler.

“Daddy, I want one.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

“One day,” I told him, “you’ll have a yard so big I’ll need binoculars to find you.”

He laughed like I’d already bought it.

From the kitchen window, Renee smiled without saying a word.

Eight months ago, after Eli was asleep, she sat across from me at our kitchen table with both hands wrapped around untouched tea.

“I signed up to become a surrogate,” she said.

For a second, I couldn’t answer.

“The agency pays almost $70,000,” she continued. “Enough for a down payment.”

I pushed my chair back. “No.”

“Calvin…”

“No. There has to be another way.”

“I’ve looked.”

“I’ll work more, Ren.”

“You already leave before sunrise,” she whispered.