I look back now, long after the years have passed, to the two times I became a surrogate mother and how that choice allowed my children and me to carve out a decent life. I first gave birth to my daughter when I was only eighteen. The delivery was surprisingly painless, and I realised that childbirth need not be a terror. By then surrogacy had already become a familiar practice in the UK, and I began to think of it seriously.
My family had never been wealthy. My parents struggled to keep my three sisters and me fed and clothed. At seventeen I married James Clarke, and with our infant, Lily, we barely scraped by. We had no money, no flat of our own, and were forced to make do with cramped rooms in a shared house in Manchester. I floated the idea of surrogacy, hoping it might ease our financial strain, but James dismissed it no matter how hard I tried to persuade him; he could not see it as a solution.
A few years later Rose arrived, our second child. The pressure grew, and James finally walked out, unable to bear the mounting difficulties. I was left alone with two toddlers, but my mother, Margaret, and my sisters rallied to help, watching the girls while I took shifts at the factory. Still, the pennies never added up, and I resolved to follow through on the plan that had haunted me for years.
I drove down to London and applied to a surrogacy agency in the capital. Several attempts were made to implant an embryo, but none resulted in a pregnancy, and the last try ended in a miscarriage. Defeated, I returned home and thought of giving up. Six months later, however, an advert caught my eye: a reputable clinic was offering favourable terms. I rang them, telling myself that if it worked, it would be a blessing; if it didnt, it was simply fate.
This time everything fell into place. For a year we lived in a tidy flat in a new block, the prospective parents of the child I was to carry were generous beyond expectation. They supplied us with fine groceries, bought toys for Lily and Rose, and paid for our trips to the cinema and the zoo. Nine months later I delivered a healthy, handsome boy, Thomas.
With the surrogate fee paid in pounds, we managed to purchase a modest twobedroom house in a leafy suburb of Birmingham. The money also gave us a year of breathing space, and we vowed not to waste it. Two years after that, I became a surrogate once more, this time for a family from India, bringing another child into the world.
Today Emma Thompson, Lily, Rose, and Thomas live in a spacious house with everything we need. Some people still cast judgement, but I see nothing wrong with providing my family a comfortable existence, even if it comes through surrogacy. The memories of those hard days now sit behind me, and I am grateful for the path that led us to where we are.
