I went to a new gynecologist expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as the exam was over, he frowned and asked me in a strange tone who had treated me before; I replied naturally that it was my husband, who is also a gynecologist.

I went to a new gynecologist expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as he finished the exam, he frowned and asked in a strange tone who had treated me before. I answered naturally that it had been my husband, who is also a gynecologist. Then the silence in the room grew heavy—almost unbearable. He stared at me for several seconds that felt endless and said with a seriousness that chilled my blood: “We need to run tests right now. What I’m seeing shouldn’t be there.” In that moment, I felt as if the ground had vanished beneath my feet.

I went to that new gynecologist almost automatically, like someone checking another box on the list of “responsible adult things.” I had postponed my annual exam for too long, and Diego had been reminding me for weeks.

“Make an appointment with someone reliable, someone from the public hospital. That way they won’t think I’m treating you because of favoritism,” he had joked.

That March day in Madrid was cold, and I was still wearing my coat when the nurse called my name.