My name is Hân, I’m 29, an ordinary woman like so many others. I have a small family — my husband Dũng is a gentle, decent bridge engineer who always put our wife-and-child first. We have a four-year-old daughter, Bống, who is my life and the only comfort I have right now.

Everything began to fall apart right around last Tet (Lunar New Year) last year. After a severe bout of abdominal pain, we took him to the doctor and got the worst news: he had terminal pancreatic cancer. The vicious disease had already spread and was inoperable. The doctor just shook his head and said, “Do what you can.”

I collapsed. Nobody could have imagined that the man who had seemed healthy and strong the day before would be in a hospital bed the next, pale, gaunt, with only a faint gleam of hope left in his eyes. But I refused to let myself despair. I couldn’t let him die. I couldn’t let my daughter lose her father while she was still so young. I started doing everything I could to find treatment — asking everywhere, consulting both traditional Eastern medicine and Western medicine.

Then someone introduced me to an imported drug from the U.S. that was said to prolong life and ease symptoms. But the cost was 360 million VND for a three-month course. My family, far from wealthy, had already wiped out our savings after the first round of treatment. I borrowed from friends and relatives, but the amount was still huge.

I began to panic and developed chronic insomnia. Every morning I would look at Dũng lying there, weakly holding my hand while saying, “I’m sorry — because of me you and our child suffer” — and my heart felt as if someone were squeezing it. One desperate night, I happened to read an article online about “surrogacy” — the service of carrying a pregnancy for someone else under a private agreement. In Vietnam this practice is only legally permitted between family members. But on the black market, it’s a “profession” — no different from selling one’s body or blood. Some people even said they’d been paid as much as 800 million to 1 billion VND if they delivered a healthy son for an infertile family.

I was stunned. Part of me was disgusted by the thought. But another part — my instincts as a wife and mother — screamed that this might be the last chance to save Dũng. I agonized for many nights. In the end, I decided to call a number shared in a private online group.

The person who answered was a woman named Linh. She spoke gently but directly. She didn’t beat around the bush: “You need money, and we need a healthy surrogate — no underlying conditions, non-smoker, no history of premature birth. If everything goes well, after delivery you’ll receive 900 million VND. We’ll cover all prenatal care, food, and rest.”

I was speechless when I heard the figure. With that money I could pay for my husband’s treatment, provide for my child, even save something in case he didn’t make it. I asked, “Do I have to have sexual relations with the person who wants the child?”

She sneered: “No. We do it by in vitro fertilization. Their sperm and egg — your uterus.”

After two weeks of tests, ultrasounds, and medical check-ups, I was accepted. The person hiring me was a man called H — a wealthy businessman in his fifties with no heir; his wife was post-menopausal. They were very secretive; I wasn’t allowed to meet them — everything was handled through intermediaries. I was moved into a serviced apartment in District 2, with people looking after me and monitoring me closely. My only job was to carry the pregnancy and give birth.

I lied to the neighbors that I’d taken a job as a housekeeper for a rich family and would be staying at their place. To Dũng I said a friend had helped me get a well-paying job that could cover his hospital bills. He reluctantly agreed, thinking I was going away for legitimate work. I knew I was lying to the man who truly loved me, but I had no way back.

During the second month of pregnancy I suffered severe morning sickness; I couldn’t eat and was nauseous all day. Every night I hugged my belly and cried — in pain, ashamed, humiliated. There were times I wanted to give up, but when I imagined Dũng’s desperate eyes and our little girl asking, “Mom, when will you come home?” I gritted my teeth and endured.

Then I received terrible news: my husband was rushed to the hospital with an infection after chemotherapy. I ran to his bedside, held him, and sobbed. My belly was noticeably showing by then; I lied and said I was being a surrogate for an acquaintance to raise money to save him. He said nothing at first — just looked at me for a long time, then buried his head on my shoulder and wept.

From that day on, I officially became a surrogate mother — for my husband, for my child, for my family.

I don’t know whether what I did was right or wrong anymore. All I know is that, in that situation, I had no other choice.

Nine months of secret pregnancy, I lived like a shadow. My belly grew and my heart shrank. Guilt gnawed at me every night. The only things that got me through the physical and mental pain were the brief phone calls with my husband and my daughter. Every time I heard Dũng say, “I’m feeling better… Don’t worry, go on with your work,” my heart warmed and I found the strength to carry on.

The day I went into labor they took me to a private hospital and cared for me thoroughly. It was a cesarean. I was not allowed to see the baby. They took him away right after they cut the umbilical cord. All I knew was that it was a boy. I lay on the recovery bed, my belly throbbed, and I felt hollow inside. It felt as though a piece of me had been cut away. Even though I had mentally prepared myself, that moment still left me stunned. A life I had carried for nine months — through all the pain of childbirth — and I wasn’t even allowed to hold him once.

A few days later I received the promised money — 900 million VND — along with a warning: “Consider us strangers. The contract ends here. No contact, no curiosity.” I gripped the stack of cash like it was my family’s lifeline.

I immediately paid Dũng’s hospital bills and transferred him to a reputable cancer care center. From that month his health began to show clear improvement. His blood markers stabilized and he started eating again. Seeing him smile, though gaunt and weak, felt like I was alive again.

I went home to my daughter and hugged her as if to make up for everything. But my heart remained heavy. I couldn’t tell anyone the truth — not even my mother. Only Dũng knew. He never mentioned it again. But I knew there was a crack in his eyes I could never fully mend.

Three months after the birth I had a health checkup — everything was fine. I began to rebuild our life. I opened a small breakfast stall in front of a school, enough to cover daily expenses. Dũng continued regular treatment; he could not fully recover, but his life had been extended.

Life had returned to the right track.

Until one day… fate knocked again.

A strange woman came to my food stall. She was elegantly dressed, heavily made up, with a noble bearing. She handed me a photo — the baby I had given birth to. I was stunned.

She said, “You are the legal birth mother of this child. My husband — Mr. H — hid the surrogacy from me. I’m infertile, but I won’t tolerate this betrayal. Now I want custody of the baby returned to his birth mother — that is, to you.”

I panicked. “No, I can’t take the child back! That was the agreement. I was just the surrogate…”

She sneered: “Legally, unless there’s an official adoption application, you are still the mother on the birth certificate. They haven’t processed the paperwork yet, and he… he just suddenly died of a stroke.”

The news hit like lightning.

I didn’t know whether to cry or be afraid. The woman continued, “I don’t want to keep the child. He is the result of betrayal. If you don’t accept him, he will end up in an orphanage. Think about it.”

She left, leaving behind the photo — a healthy, rosy-faced baby boy whose bright eyes looked just like Dũng did when he was young.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I looked at my daughter sleeping soundly, then at my husband breathing steadily beside her. I cried like I had never cried before. A child is innocent. He was merely the result of a desperate act — yet treated like an unwanted commodity.

After days of deliberation, I decided to meet the woman again.

I said, “I will take the child back. But I don’t want the money, I don’t want any dispute. I only ask that you agree to sign papers relinquishing custody and never interfere again.”

The day I brought the baby home, Dũng looked at me for a long time, then nodded and softly said, “I don’t blame you. If not for those sacrifices, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

My daughter — little Bống — was unsure at first, but she soon called the boy “em Bi” and the two of them became inseparable, stuck to each other like shadows. As for me, although I’m still sometimes haunted by the past, every morning when I wake to see my two children sitting and laughing over their bread — I know I did the right thing.

People might judge. I may never dare to tell the whole story to anyone but Dũng for the rest of my life. But I have no regrets.

Because I saved my husband, and above all — I did not abandon the child I carried and gave birth to.