The conference room at Golden State Surrogacy smells faintly of lavender and printer ink.
Kevin and I sit side by side, hands clasped beneath the table, while Sarah—our agency coordinator—lays out a few profiles like she's dealing cards that could change our lives.
Like my grandmother used to lay out her tarot cards on Sunday afternoons, each one holding a piece of the future we couldn't see yet.
"These are the potential carriers who matched your criteria," she says gently.
Her voice is warm, practiced, like a nurse who's learned how to deliver hope and disappointment in the same breath.
Like she knows how to hold space for dreams that might not come true.
"All of them have passed the initial screenings—medical, psychological—but the one you choose will go through deeper evaluation before anything moves forward."
I nod, slowly.
The weight of it lands somewhere in my chest like a stone dropped into still water.
This woman—whoever she ends up being—will carry our child.
That feels massive.
Sacred.
A little surreal.
Like asking someone to hold your heart outside your body for nine months.
In Florida, we wouldn't have made it this far.
Wouldn't have been allowed to even dream this big.
Here, we're sitting across from someone whose job is to help us find the person who'll make our family possible.
Someone who sees us as worthy parents before we've even proven ourselves.
Kevin leans in.
"What's involved in the screening?"
There's that slight edge to his voice.
The one he gets when he's nervous but trying to sound professional, like he's talking to a patient's parents instead of planning his own child's future.
Sarah walks us through it.
Medical testing that sounds like a inventory of everything that could go wrong.
Infectious disease panels.
A full reproductive work-up.
Then psychological evaluations to make sure she's emotionally ready for what she's signing up for.
She says it like she's said it a hundred times, but I can hear the care in it too.
The understanding that we're asking someone to loan us their body for the most important thing we'll ever do.
"And the legal stuff?" I ask.
My lawyer brain kicking in before I can stop it, because this is what I do—I protect people from systems that don't have their best interests at heart.
"We'll help coordinate everything with your attorney," she says.
"The surrogacy contract will outline roles, responsibilities, compensation, medical decisions... and of course, establish your parental rights. Nothing proceeds until both sides have signed."
Her voice carries the weight of experience, of other couples who've sat in these chairs asking the same desperate questions.
Kevin squeezes my hand under the table.
This is happening.
After everything—the law that chased us out of our home state, the move across the country, the starting over—this is actually happening.
Sarah lays out the profiles.
Alicia. Jasmine. Emily.
Each one with a photo, a short letter, a life that exists beyond our need for her.
Real women with real families who've decided to help strangers become parents.
I try to take them in, but it's a lot.
A real person behind each page.
Someone's daughter, sister, maybe mother.
Someone who's choosing to let us into her life in the most intimate way possible.
"Take your time," Sarah says, as if reading my mind.
"Connection matters. This is someone you'll be sharing a piece of your life with. Someone who'll be part of your child's origin story forever."
Kevin and I exchange a glance.
We've talked about this—who we hoped she'd be.
Kind. Steady. Already a mom, maybe, so she knows what she's getting into.
But now that it's real, I feel that old swirl of certainty and doubt rising again like tide against the shore.
We dive in.
Jasmine is 35, a nurse, and has done this before.
Twice.
She knows the drill, the medical appointments, the way your body stops belonging entirely to you.
Her letter is calm, grounded, written in the careful handwriting of someone who's thought this through.
Emily is 31, a stay-at-home mom who lights up talking about her commitment to LGBTQ+ families.
Her handwriting loops, open and hopeful, like a teacher writing encouragement on a report card.
She's never done this, but you can tell she means it.
Every word carries the sincerity of someone who believes in love over biology.
Kevin keeps going back to Emily's letter.
"I just... I feel her heart in this," he says quietly.
"I know," I admit.
"But Jasmine's done this before. That matters too. She knows what she's signing up for."
The unspoken worry hangs between us: what if Emily changes her mind halfway through?
What if good intentions aren't enough when the reality sets in?
We sit with both of them for a long time.
We circle the profiles like my grandmother used to circle the church before making big decisions, looking for signs that might not exist.
Ask Sarah more questions that dance around the real question: how do you trust someone with the most precious thing you'll ever have?
Still, we're stuck between possibility and paralysis.
Sarah notices.
Her eyes soften with the patience of someone who's watched this scene play out before.
"You don't have to decide today," she says.
"We can set up video calls with both. Sometimes a conversation makes things clearer. Sometimes you just know."
Kevin and I share a look.
That silent one we've honed over years of hard decisions.
The one that says: we'll figure this out.
Like we always do.
But this isn't about who's 'better'—it's about who feels right.
Who feels like family before they even become family.
And right now... we're still feeling our way there.
Like walking through a dark house, hands outstretched, trusting that the walls will guide us home.
This isn't just about who carries the baby.
It's about who carries the dream with us.
Who becomes part of our story in a way that can never be undone.
Who helps us become the family we crossed a continent to create.