She's 32, and she has three children. She loves to be pregnant

Host: The night settled over the city like a soft, woolen shawl, muffling the usual noise and slowing the rhythm of the streets. Through the wide window of a small apartment, a pale moonlight streamed in, bathing the room in silver. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the air still smelled of earth and electricity, like something freshly washed.

On the couch, Jeeny sat cross-legged, holding a steaming cup of chamomile tea, her long black hair damp from the rain, clinging to her shoulders. Across from her, Jack leaned against the window frame, a faint cigarette glow flickering between his fingers, casting brief, orange reflections against his sharp, grey eyes.

The room was quiet, except for the distant hum of a city that never completely slept.

Jeeny: “Cheryl Tiegs once said, ‘She’s 32, and she has three children. She loves to be pregnant but she doesn’t want any more children in her life. So she decided to help another couple. And she’s just been amazing.’”
Her voice was tender, almost reverent. “Isn’t that incredible, Jack? To love something so deeply that you choose to share it — to give it away so someone else can feel it too?”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “You mean surrogacy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Isn’t it one of the most selfless acts a person can do? To carry life — not for yourself, but for someone else’s happiness?”

Jack: (taking a slow drag) “Selfless? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just biology turned into business. People talk about miracles, but there’s always a transaction somewhere — emotional, financial, psychological.”

Host: The smoke drifted upward, curling through the moonlight like an uncertain thought. Jeeny watched it fade, her eyes reflecting a quiet ache.

Jeeny: “You always find the shadows first, don’t you?”

Jack: “Because they’re always there. You call her amazing — and she is, no doubt — but the world she lives in made that kind of giving possible only through money and need. You think she did it just out of love?”

Jeeny: “I think love has many shapes, Jack. Sometimes it looks like sacrifice. Sometimes it’s service. Sometimes it’s just… choosing to help, even when it hurts.”

Host: Outside, a siren wailed and faded, leaving behind the soft patter of dripping rainwater from the gutters. Inside, the quiet stretched — not empty, but full, heavy with opposing truths.

Jack: “I don’t deny it’s noble, Jeeny. But it’s complicated. When a woman becomes a surrogate, she’s lending her body, her hormones, her very cells to create something she’ll never keep. How can anyone carry life inside them and then just… let go?”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes love isn’t possession, Jack. It’s release.”

Host: Her words pierced the air gently, like a note on a piano played with reverence. Jack’s gaze shifted, the lines of cynicism on his face softening just enough to reveal thought beneath the armor.

Jack: “You make it sound like a spiritual act.”

Jeeny: “It is, in a way. She’s giving the miracle of existence to someone who might never have known it. Isn’t that close to divine?”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s human — the kind of messy, contradictory humanity that keeps trying to play god.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And yet, here we are — alive because someone once decided to take that risk. Every mother does. Every birth is an act of faith, Jack.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered through the windowpane, painting soft silver lines across Jack’s face. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and turned toward her, his voice low.

Jack: “You think the world deserves that kind of faith? Look around. Half of it’s burning. The other half’s numb.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people like her matter. They remind us the world still has grace — quiet, ordinary grace.”

Host: Jeeny took a sip of her tea, her hands trembling slightly, not from fear but from the weight of the idea itself. The steam rose between them, curling and vanishing, like the fragile space between creation and loss.

Jeeny: “You know, my aunt carried a child for another woman once. She said the strangest thing to me afterward — that she felt both empty and full at the same time. Empty because she let go, and full because she knew she’d given someone else a reason to live.”

Jack: (softly) “That’s... beautiful.”
He paused. “But doesn’t it tear you apart, to give life and then walk away from it?”

Jeeny: “It tears you apart to hold on too tightly, too. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Whether it’s a child, a dream, or a person — sometimes love asks us to let go before it asks us to stay.”

Host: The silence between them deepened. Outside, the clouds began to part, and a thin beam of moonlight fell through the window, illuminating the small table between them.

Jack reached out and placed his hand over Jeeny’s — hesitant, deliberate.

Jack: “You make it sound like love is always about loss.”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “It’s about giving — and knowing you can survive the loss that follows.”

Host: The moonlight caught the side of her face, turning her expression into something almost ethereal. Jack looked at her — not with cynicism, but with the quiet awe of someone beginning to understand the weight of what he’d dismissed.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes her amazing. Not that she gave life, but that she didn’t let the giving destroy her.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”
Her eyes glistened now, reflecting the city lights like tears that hadn’t yet fallen. “That’s what true strength looks like — to create and release. To nurture without claiming.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — a small, rhythmic reminder of time moving, of moments birthing and ending.

Jack: “You think we could ever love like that? Without needing to hold, to claim, to keep?”

Jeeny: “Maybe someday. When we learn that love doesn’t have to own to be real. When we learn to give and still remain whole.”

Host: For a while, neither spoke. The moonlight stretched across the room, the city’s pulse dimmed, and the night exhaled its long, quiet breath.

Jeeny placed her cup down gently and smiled.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — that’s what Cheryl Tiegs saw. Not just a woman helping a couple, but the beauty of someone who found purpose in generosity. That’s the kind of humanity we forget we’re capable of.”

Jack: (nodding) “And maybe the kind we most need to remember.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. Outside, the streets gleamed under the streetlights — each puddle holding a reflection of the moon, like small pieces of borrowed light. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in silence — not the silence of distance, but of reverence.

And as the city drifted into midnight, a quiet truth lingered in the room like incense:

That love, in its purest form, isn’t measured by what it keeps — but by what it dares to give away.