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.

Then came the statements, expert reports, letters from the medical board written in cold, carefully neutral language.

Months later, the case was partially dismissed.

They said there was “insufficient evidence of intentional forgery” regarding the signature. No one was willing to say definitively that consent had not been given.

Diego received a mild ethical sanction from the medical board—a temporary suspension from practice that, in reality, only required him to work for a few months in another province under a colleague’s name.

The clinic continued operating.

Patients continued walking in and out.

I moved to Madrid.

I changed law firms, apartments, even my favorite café. The divorce process was long and cold, like an illness that fades but never fully disappears.

One day, walking down Fuencarral Street, I passed a young couple pushing a stroller. The baby was sleeping, oblivious to the noise around him.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest.

But it wasn’t only pain.

It was something more complex.

Months later, during a routine follow-up appointment with Álvaro, he looked at me carefully.

“How are you?” he asked.

I almost said “fine” out of habit.

But I stayed silent for a few seconds.