How does it feel to have your identity as a mother regulated and terminated by a contract? It’s a question not very easy to answer for hordes of poor women who carry and deliver babies for other infertile couples.
The mother of all ironies is that they are never called mothers, and they are told that their wombs are just a temporary nine-month home for the newborn.
That’s the name of a billion-dollar trade called surrogacy, a job that, when completed, spurns any sentimental or legal strings with the babies.
But is it as simple as that?