A Single Father’s Story of Love and Surrogacy—
Details have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.
About two weeks before Sara’s expected birth, when everyone already knew that I was about to become a single father through surrogacy, I was surprised to realize that no one had asked me the most basic question: why?
I’m a 52-year-old man, considered good-looking by most, occasionally courted here and there. The logical assumption would be that if I wanted to start a family, I would do so in the most socially accepted way—within marriage, or at least some form of partnership. Even those convinced that I belong to the LGBTQ+ community likely imagined a “complete” family: two men and a baby.
For some reason, everyone accepted it as a given and spared me the obvious interrogations. Fine. People who know me are already aware that I’ve always done everything alone, for as long as I can remember. But even those who barely know me, who are only superficially acquainted with me, somehow accepted it without question.
In any case, whether it interests anyone or not, I decided to share the reasons that led me to begin the surrogacy process without a partner.
A Life of Being Alone
Anyone who has read previous posts on this blog already knows that while I’m straight in my sexual orientation, I’ve spent most of my life alone. I was never the type for nightlife, bars, clubs, or any of the usual places where people meet. I also wasn’t blessed with many friends eager to set me up. Even the few I do have have given up on me a long time ago.
On the rare occasions when I did consider love or starting a family, I did so with extreme discretion, so that word wouldn’t reach my parents and spark false hope. I knew the chances of me actually entering a relationship were so slim that I wanted to spare them the disappointment.
And so, every time I considered returning to the dating scene, I signed up for dating websites. I met quite a few women through them, but in hindsight I understand that it was doomed from the start. Over the years, being alone had become an integral part of my personality—part of my DNA. Most of the dates were one-offs; only rarely did anything continue. In most cases, the fault was mine. The internal barriers that ruled me wouldn’t allow me to move forward.
My life flowed calmly along. Wake up, go to work, return home in the afternoon. A bit of exercise, a bit of TV, a shower, an episode of Married… with Children or Seinfeld with dinner, then straight to bed to end the day. Every few years I’d try the dating sites again, and when nothing came of it, I’d disconnect and return to routine.
Choosing the PlayStation
In my early forties, I decided that was it. I understood there was no point in continuing to chase a relationship that simply didn’t exist for me. I quit the dating sites, bought a PlayStation, and devoted myself entirely to gaming.
My family mocked me. They thought it was a midlife crisis. But they ate their words when they realized it wasn’t a passing phase—it was a self-imposed enslavement.
The PlayStation became a real family member for me. Not one that demands attention or drives you crazy, but one that’s always there for you, offering a reliable escape whenever you want it.
Who needs more than that? Certainly not me.
Something Begins to Crack
As I approached the age of fifty, something cracked. I can’t quite say what.
During a period when I was commuting daily by bus and train to work in Jerusalem—leaving home before dawn and returning after dark—I found myself watching couples on the train: holding hands, laughing, kissing, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. A strange sense of loneliness began to creep in.
At the same time, I was training intensely with weights. My muscles were noticeable even through clothes, and I caught more than a few women smiling at me. Inside me, a voice started shouting: Wake up already.
Since I’m not the type to approach women, the familiar option—the online one—seemed relevant again. But this time I knew it clearly: it’s now or never. There would be no other chance.
In an uncharacteristic move, I signed up for every dating site at once—this time paying for subscriptions. In my mind, the small fortune I spent was supposed to guarantee that this time it would happen. That I was going all in, with no turning back. And so, that’s what I believed.
I chatted with dozens of women. I didn’t meet a single one. Eventually, I internalized what I’d long known: I’m incapable of not being alone. Decades of withdrawal from social and romantic life had sealed it. And truthfully, being alone wasn’t all that bad. It was what I knew. Where I felt safe.
And yet, I kept trying.
Liron
And then I came across a site buried somewhere around the tenth page of Google search results—one with very few registered users and hardly any activity.
I moved quickly through the profiles, mostly to get through the entire site and mentally check it off the list. And then one photo stopped me cold.
I didn’t need to search my memory. Not even for a second. I knew exactly who she was.
The same face. The same smile. The same hairstyle. Exactly as I remembered her from the last time I’d seen her—forty years earlier.
Liron.
We had grown up together. Daycare, kindergarten, elementary school. We were inseparable. She lived in the building next to mine, and we met almost every day—after school, on weekends, whenever we could. We played soccer, basketball, marbles, and other games that may not even exist anymore.
At home we had one VHS tape with two Israeli films everyone loved. Liron would always come over to borrow it—her entire family waiting eagerly for her return. Our bond was so close that her older brother would protect me whenever bullies picked on me, and her older sister was my counselor at summer camp. In those innocent days, Liron and I were inseparable.
One day, when I was eleven, I betrayed her—and myself.
On the way home, as all the boys from class talked about which girl they planned to ask to be their girlfriend, for some reason I said I would ask another girl—someone I didn’t love, wasn’t close to, and, in hindsight, have no idea why I chose her at all. Maybe simply because she was the queen of the class, and I wanted, if only for a moment, to fit in socially.
I was rejected.
But the hardest part came the next day at school, when Liron found out. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eyes from sheer shame. She, cool as ever, behaved as if nothing had happened.
Liron and I never officially declared ourselves a couple. We never managed to make the transition from close friends to a romantic relationship—everything was still naive at that age. At school parties we danced slow songs together, and during “seven minutes in heaven,” a childish party game in which a boy and a girl are left alone together—often in a closet—we usually ended up paired together.
And then our last day together arrived. The first day of summer break. The end of elementary school. I was about to move to another city with my family.
The moving truck stood outside, loaded with our furniture. Liron and I stood next to each other, closer than ever—and for the first time, we couldn’t find the words. No goodbye. Just silence.
After the move, something inside me shut down. I withdrew from people, from the world. Liron had been one of my anchors—a person I trusted, an important part of my life—and losing her felt like losing gravity.
Over the years, her presence never really left me.
During my military service, at what was easily the loneliest period of my life, I pulled out my elementary school yearbook and stared at her picture. One night, overwhelmed, I searched the phone directory for her family’s number and called. When she answered “Hello,” I was transported back to those long-forgotten days. I hung up without saying a word.
Another time, I waited under her building for over an hour, hoping she’d appear. She didn’t. They had moved. Later I learned they had moved to my city.
That was my last attempt. From that moment on, I forced myself to bury the thought of her—until I saw her picture again, decades later, on that forgotten dating site.
Reconnecting
I sent her a message. I waited.
I searched her name in the phone directory and found a single number. Before dialing, I knew it was hers. Every molecule in my body knew it.
I introduced myself. “I only know one Yaniv,” she said. She recognized me immediately—without asking, without hesitation. In that moment, I understood that I hadn’t been just a memory to her.
We talked for hours. The conversation flowed effortlessly, as if forty years hadn’t passed since we stood together beside that moving truck. No awkward silences. No searching for words. Everything felt natural, familiar, right.
When we hung up, it was late—but I couldn’t fall asleep. I joked to myself that maybe I should already start looking for a wedding hall and sending out invitations. Yes—it felt that strong.
The next day at work, no one understood why such a childish smile was spread across my face. To avoid explaining too much, I said my brother was about to visit with his daughters. But in truth, I was waiting for the workday to end so I could call Liron, and time seemed to crawl.
When I finished work, I couldn’t resist and called her on my way to the bus stop. There was no answer. I tried to reassure myself—maybe she’d call back in the evening. But she didn’t. Not that day. Not the next.
I’d experienced things like this before with women, but never in a way that affected me like this. I began to understand that the long, emotional conversation we had shared had made a deep impression mainly on one side.
And then Liron called.
When I saw her number on the screen, I was the happiest person alive. I was convinced she had a good reason for not returning my call for two days.
But she didn’t mention the fact that she hadn’t been in touch for two days at all—and the moment I heard her voice, I was swept away again and forgot about it completely.
We talked again about wanting to meet.
But anyone who had already recognized the pattern won’t be surprised to hear that when I tried to reach her the next day, she didn’t get back to me.
Two days later, Liron called again.
This time, I didn’t respond with the same ease as before. She sensed it immediately in my tone and said she doesn’t always answer right away. I told her I expected reciprocity, and that without it, a relationship couldn’t work.
She said she understood. Later, she mentioned that she was worried about how far I worked from home and said she would try to help me find something closer.
The conversation went very well. We set a date to meet on Wednesday, two days later. As far as I was concerned, all previous misunderstandings had been erased. A new page had been opened. I started looking for a suitable place for what felt like a historic meeting and waited impatiently for the longed-for day.
I should have known.
When I called on Wednesday to coordinate the time and place, she asked to postpone. She said the rainy weather didn’t appeal to her, and that she preferred to attend a Torah class that day.
I felt as if I were on an emotional roller coaster, plunging into its steepest drop. All I managed to say was,
“Okay. Good luck,”
and I hung up.
That was the last time we spoke.
The Decision
That evening, I understood: if it didn’t happen with her, it wouldn’t happen with anyone else.
The next day, I began looking into surrogacy. I was 48.
Today, every time I hold Sara in my arms, I know it was the right decision.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
Sara and Me 