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.

“Of course,” he replied immediately. “I’ll prepare a full report. And Lucía…” he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, “I know this is very hard, but you should consider filing a complaint. This isn’t just unethical. It’s a crime.”

I left the health center feeling as if the sidewalks had tilted slightly, forcing me to walk at an angle.

Madrid was the same as always—cars, people talking on their phones, the smell of coffee drifting from cafés.

But something inside me had broken in a place where air no longer reached.

On the train back to Salamanca, I opened old messages from Diego.

There was one from the week before:

“Someday, when everything calms down, we’ll have our baby. I promise.”

I read it again and again, feeling each word slowly turn into poison.

When I got home, he was in the kitchen making a Spanish omelet.

“How did the checkup go?” he asked without turning around, as if he had sent me to the dentist.

“Fine,” I lied, placing my bag on the table with exaggerated care. “The doctor wants to repeat a few tests.”

Diego turned then. His dark eyes scanned my face, searching.

“Any problem?”