A week later Amelia and Fritz accompanied me to the Manhattan fertility clinic they’d chosen. The reception area, with its marble floors, high-vaulted ceilings, and enormous windows resembled a ballroom. I wondered how much the fertility doctors charged, in order to pay for all the marble. We each filled out our respective questionnaire and waited before Dr. Krasnov called us into his office. I saw him assess Amelia when she entered the office. She was wearing a peach-colored dress, a peach scarf, and matching lipstick. On someone else, the outfit might have appeared cloying, but her acute sense of style overrode any such possibility. Her silky hair fell toward her face.

The doctor probably smelled Amelia’s money and her desperation. That was his job—to monetize her desperation. He fed off people’s deficits. He wasn’t invested in her happiness. But I was. Truly, I was.

I admired Krasnov’s skill and emotional intelligence in navigating the charged situation. He knew not to offend anyone, even with his subtle nods or tone of voice, or turn of the head, or gesture of the hand. He understood the power dynamics. Amelia and Fritz had one kind of power. I had another kind. I had the power to bear a child. I had something Amelia yearned for. She and Fritz had money and a superior socioeconomic status.

He most likely dealt with many people who had some explicit or implicit financial gain at stake. I felt certain he had never seen a surrogate with my level of apparent breeding. I say apparent because I’ve had to play catch-up. It was only after graduating from college that I had opportunities to improve my lot in life. And frankly, most surrogates are similar to my own parents in their socioeconomic status. He had seen women who were struggling, but savvy enough to make it appear that they were not struggling too much. Those women wanted to avoid the impression that they had ever taken drugs or entered into high-risk situations with abusive boyfriends or spouses. That they had ever drank alcohol to excess or smoked cigarettes at all. They wanted to give the impression that they lived moderate, wholesome, and health-conscious lives. Because any really trashy genes, they might soak into the baby in undefined and inarticulable ways.

The doctor had already reviewed our questionnaires, looking for discrepancies in terms of our expectations. The only question I’d hesitated to answer was the question about my access to the child after it was born. My desire was to be a presence in the child’s life forever. But at the same time, I didn’t want to give the Straubs cause to question my agenda. Not at this stage.

On a scale of 1 to 5, on the question of how much time I’d like to spend with the child once he or she was born, I circled 3.

Amelia suggested that I circle 4. “It takes a village.” She laughed.