Hello, Mr. Martin. It’s Jayne Vey from Mapleville Academy returning your call. I’m sorry, Mr. Martin. It looks like Samantha would be a great fit for our program and we have a spot for her, but unfortunately our endowments you inquired about have all been allotted for the year. If you fill out paperwork now for summer and/or next school year, I can almost guarantee she will have full tuition and fees covered. I wish I could be of more help. Please call if I can be of further assistance.

I listened to the voicemail for the tenth time in half as many days, hoping—praying that I would hear something different. I should’ve known that once the school year was underway that it was going to be a slim to none chance that they would help us financially, but I was desperate.

Sam’s current school was down my back begging me to sign her placement page of the individual education plan, or IEP for short, so they could transfer her. All the research I had done on my rights, including calls to three advocacy groups, told me that I could refuse to sign or check the box for a request of due process. Due process, as it turned out, was a very complicated and time-consuming series of steps that tended to benefit the parents when they were looking to add services, but historically our state seemed to side with the school when it came to scaling back services, which was the case with Samantha.

There had to be another way. I knew there did. Shit, I’d even spent hours looking at what becoming a surrogate would entail. The biological logistics of it were simple enough—go to the clinic, get implanted with a child not of your genes, grow a baby, done. Except that was the least of it. There were medical tests up the wazoo, picking a couple, deciding on how involved you and the couple were wanting you to be in any of the process, picking parents, parents picking you, the financial pieces, and in some cases, international concerns.

The most insurmountable of all for me was the emotional turmoil of carrying a child that wasn’t yours. That was my deal breaker. If I carried a child, which my biological clock begged from me more often with every passing year, then giving that baby up was going to devastate me.

The ring of my phone pulled me from my head, which was a blessing, since I was spiraling into despair quickly. I needed a solution to all our woes, and every time I looked into a new avenue to help Samantha, I hit a brick wall.

“Hello?” I grimaced as I saw it was the school’s front office. They knew I would answer it even though all of the calls from the special education director went to voicemail. The calls that had been coming more and more frequently. Calling from the generic number, the one they used when kids were sick or hurt and needed to be picked up, was a low blow, and even though I knew it was Mrs. Bulkely and not the nurse, I had to answer, just in case. Asshats.

“Hello, Josiah, it is Mrs. Bulkely.”

Oh, how it pissed me off when they used those subtle power plays like this, using my first name but their title to show some sort of hierarchy. It didn’t skip my attention that she called when I would normally be slinging coffee. I was only home where I could talk unfiltered because my manager needed me to switch with him for Sunday.

“Is Samantha ill?” Because that was the only thing I gave a fuck about at the moment. Their paperwork could wait.

“She is not sick, no, Josiah. But she needs you to be a grown-up and sign the paperwork so she can get the help she needs.”

Be a grown-up. She was such a condescending, awful human. I became a grown-up when most people my age were trying to get into a bar with their fake IDs so they could play pool, drink twofer beers, and if they were lucky, get laid. That night my parents died, I became my little sister’s guardian and more of a grown-up than half the people I had seen working in that school. Judgmental piece of garbage.

“No. What she needs from me is to stand my ground and get her the actual help she needs instead of letting her be corralled into a program that guarantees she will not be successful.”

What Sam needed from me was to hit the lottery and have enough money to provide her with the education she needed, the time with me she and I both needed, and all the little things in life kids needed—like fresh fruits and vegetables daily.

“Elm Ave Elementary has an excellent program, Josiah.”

“That it does, for very specific populations, none of which Samantha is part of.”

I’d spent more time looking into Elm Ave over the past few days than this woman could ever imagine. They had an amazing program for the deaf, another for the blind, one with mixed reviews for children with severe autism, and the program they wanted Sam to be in, the one reserved for the kids whose IQ fell below the average range. It, too, was excellent, but not for a child who Mapleville was sure would test out above average, if not superior, IQ wise.

“Her test results would suggest otherwise.”

“Her test results are not accurate. You used an IQ test that numerous studies have shown to be inaccurate with students facing the types of challenges Samantha does. You used reading-based assessments for her mathematics, and you tested her directly before lunch during her recess time.”

That took her a pregnant pause to respond to. I knew she looked at me as an undereducated, too young to be a dad, single father with little if any knowledge about education. All of which had been true until recently. I was still undereducated and too young for the job at hand, but I spent every waking moment not at work or with Sam, making sure I knew everything I possibly could about programs for her. I cared, and that was something Mrs. Bulkely didn’t quite grasp.

“We have been doing this a long time, Josiah. We strive to do what is best for our students, even when their guardians who are Google versed in education decide to live in denial.”

“I am going to pretend you didn’t just insult me and get back to the issue at hand. Mapleville Academy has accepted Samantha.”

It was probably for the best she had called. There was no way my face hid the sheer rage I felt, as calm as I forced my voice to be. With my luck, security would’ve been hauling me out of there before the conversation was over.

“They do not accept students with cognitive issues, I assure you. You probably were sent an application.”

Because she thought I was as lacking of intelligence as she thought Samantha was. It was then that I realized that even if I managed to get her retested and given a proper IEP in her current school, they would never treat her as anything else. That school had officially become toxic at her placement meeting, possibly earlier. She needed to be out of there.

“No, Mrs. Bulkely. I filled out the application in person and then last Saturday they did some screening assessments and she was accepted, with a full battery of assessments and an individual learning program to be administered and designed upon her arrival.”

I was proud of Samantha for doing as I said and not telling them about the testing, not wanting them to treat her as if she had one foot out the door, especially since I couldn’t afford getting her one foot into the new one.

“We have received no such transfer request.”

Again with the assumptions that I was unable to tell the truth. How this woman had worked her way up to being principal of the largest elementary school in the city was beyond me.

“I have not enrolled her, as of yet, so of course you would not have that. I only said she was accepted, but it is fabulous of you to suggest that I was lying.”

Because fuck it. I wasn’t going to let that go. Not when it was clear I wasn’t going to win with her.

“Josiah, I called for a reason.” She ignored my comment but her voice cracked, I assumed with nerves. Good. She needed to cut the garbage. “The superintendent has authorized me to transfer Samantha as of Monday with or without your permission, pending due process.”

Worst. Case. Scenario. Due process requested by the school put parents behind the eight ball. I still wasn’t sure what they were doing would hold up, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. Fuckity fuck fuck.

“Which is not within your authority according to my parental rights, but sally forth for Samantha’s last day at your facility will be Friday. Good day.”

I hung up and pulled up the information for the surrogacy agency I’d already been researching far more than I cared to admit. Desperate times and all that shit. Within moments I found the page I was looking for. Score. According to them, I’d be paid a fee just for filling out the information and taking the physical tests, all of which would be reimbursed to them by the couple who chose me. I quickly dialed and made an appointment for an hour later. It seemed their list of waiting couples far outnumbered the omegas willing to carry.

After a quick shower, I hopped in my car, wanting to get there early, knowing that I was going to need to fill out more paperwork than an IRS audit. Being the latter part of the morning, traffic wasn’t awful, but it still took me more time to get there than I liked, and when I pulled into the parking garage two blocks away, I was grateful that I’d left early to be just on time.

My nerves increased with every step of that two-block walk. What if they hated me? What if I failed some part of the medical? It wasn’t as if I’d been keeping up on yearly exams with no medical insurance. I could very well have something like high blood pressure, and if I didn’t calm the heck down, that would be a for certain sure.

Relief filled me when the building number I was looking for appeared. Walking inside, I quickly found the directory and headed in the direction of the office, opening its door with only a minute to spare.

Once inside, I stopped to take a deep breath and get my bearings. The lobby looked like any random office. A few uncomfy and blah chairs, a random scenic painting, and a secretary sitting behind a glass window. No one accidentally wandering in would suspect that it was the place where people came to make their families complete—or so the website boasted.

I was greeted with a warm smile and a tablet with all the paperwork I needed to fill out, actual paper no longer part of the scenario, apparently. It was only a minute after I clicked submit on my final answer that the counselor came into the waiting room for me.

“Mr. Martin, my name is Marilyn Anderson. I’m going to be your liaison through this process. Today is technically a prescreening designed to make sure you understand fully what you are signing up for and for us to get a feel for you as well. After this, if we are both still in agreement, you will go next door and do a battery of physical tests. Do you have any questions up until this point?” She had what my mother used to call a kind face, her voice demure. What she didn’t say, but we both knew was the case, was that our little discussion was one of the things that could disqualify me from using their agency, the only one in the state, and that was not something that could happen.

After making my appointment with the clinic, I called the school and confirmed that if I put down a deposit, I could pay the rest of the tuition monthly, meaning I not only had to get the clinic to agree to put me on the list of available surrogates, but also find a couple very quickly, which I’d read could be quite the challenge.

“I think most of my big questions were answered on your website and your community board. I’m sure new ones will arise, but for the moment I’m good.” I smiled, not too big as to be creepy, but enough to try and convey my kindness which seemed to be a thing prospective parents asked about.

“Very well. There are no red flags on your health questionnaire, nothing that would indicate you wouldn’t qualify physically or have anything that might be an issue for prospective parents, so that is good.” She tapped her screen a few times, reading things as she went along.

“Alright, Mr. Martin, everything looks in good order, although the social worker will need to read your answers more thoroughly, you understand.”

I nodded, not really understanding but not caring, either.

“I’ll be frank with you. We have many more couples than we have surrogates.”

That I had gathered, but by her candor, it sounded like it was far more of a shortage than they were comfortable with. With the reality television show all about surrogacy, I wasn’t surprised. It had been an open secret before, people knowing it happened but never having it touch home or if it had, they didn’t know about it. Seeing it on television changed all of that. I wasn’t sure if it was for the better or not, but since it inadvertently got me in the seat I was in, it was something I wasn’t unhappy about.

“This process should take months to complete before we even begin to talk about prospective parent surrogate pairing, but that is not where we are right now.”

Months. If this was going to take months it wouldn’t even be close to a viable option, not that I had any others. I had left no stone unturned. I looked at loans, jobs in clubs, and even selling blood. None of them came close to being enough. This was my only choice on such short notice. Thankfully, it had sounded like they needed me almost as much as I needed them.

“So, just to make sure I’m hearing you correctly, this could all move very quickly.”

“Very much so. Even more quickly, given your attractiveness, your age, and because you indicated two alpha parents were not a deal breaker for you. Not to mention the obvious.”

“My charming personality,” I teased lightly, feeling the waters. It was sad that my looks played a huge role, since none of the genes being used were mine, but people were strange about such things. I had light-brown hair and green eyes, and the only way the child I grew would have the same was in either the egg or the sperm donors did. That was how biology worked.

“You’re a male omega.” She stated matter-of-factly and to my surprise. I assumed my gender would be a hindrance. Not sure why, but I had.

“A rarity in this arena,” she continued as if answering my unspoken question. “If I may be so bold, you are, as I said, a young, good-looking, employed omega. Why surrogacy? And don’t give me the bologna you put in here about helping families and all that. The real catalyst.”

She put down her tablet, as if to let me know this was off-the-record, which it of course wasn’t, but it did make it easier for me to talk. Once I was able to put my thoughts together, I decided that honesty was the best policy. It wasn’t like I was doing it to pay off gambling debt or extend my porn collection.

“Because my parents are gone and I am the one who is raising my sister, a sister who needs a special school, one I can’t afford. She should qualify for a scholarship come fall, possibly even summer, but she needs it now.” I spoke too quickly, not wanting to allow my emotion to get me too choked up. It was one thing for this to be my reality. A completely different thing for me to share it with a stranger.

“You would sacrifice to this extent for your sister.” She said it as a statement, not a question, her face not giving away her thoughts on the matter.

“I would sacrifice everything for her.” She was worth it, all of it.

“Mr. Martin, we shouldn’t even come close to be doing this now in case your blood work is less than ideal, but let’s go to the next room and find you some prospective families.” She got up as she changed the subject, which was good because my emotions were getting away with me and crying was probably not the best way to make all things come together. “If the lab is able to get your tests done quickly, I am very comfortable moving you along as quickly as possible.”

“Because I’m desperate?” I followed as she made her way to the office door.

“No, because you understand the importance of family and what unconditional love means. You aren’t here to wind up your biological clock, to keep it ticking until you settle down or to make yourself feel good about being such a martyr, or any of the plethora of bad reasons I have seen people walk through my door. You are here for love, and that is beyond special.”

Before I could respond, she opened the door and led me to the next room, the one that held the profiles of the couples looking to complete their family.

We sat there for an hour looking at one after another, all of them fine, none of them feeling right. Not that I was picky, but Marilyn “accidentally on purpose” had let me see what the marks in the corner of the folder were, and I used them to my benefit.

Especially the ones that said they canceled more than one contract. I didn’t need any more drama in my life. Life had given me enough already. Thank you very much.

And then I saw them. An alpha pair, a pilot and a work-at-home graphic designer, married for many years and ready for a family of their own. They were the ones. I just knew it. I didn’t know how, but I did.

But first things first. I had to have more blood drawn than I thought humanly possible. After that was cleared and the social worker gave her okay, I could have the agency send my name to the couple for an interview, that was if someone didn’t snag them first.