Dr. Álvaro Serrano’s office was bright, with a large window overlooking a quiet street in Chamberí. He looked to be in his early forties, with graying hair, thin glasses, and a reserved, almost shy kindness. He asked the usual questions: medical history, cycles, pregnancies. I nodded and answered with short replies.
When I mentioned that my husband was also a gynecologist and worked at a private clinic in Salamanca, Álvaro raised an eyebrow with mild curiosity.
“Then you must already be used to all of this,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.
I smiled politely. In truth, ever since Diego opened his own clinic, we had avoided having him be my doctor.
“I find it hard to separate the personal from the professional with you,” he used to say, as if that confession itself were proof of love.
The examination began like any other: gloves, cold light, short instructions. I stared at the ceiling, at the typical panel with clouds meant to look calming but that always seemed ridiculous to me. I heard him switch instruments. The chair shifted slightly. I noticed he leaned in more than usual, and it took him too long to say anything.