“Did I sign anything?” I asked desperately, though I already knew the answer.

“There’s no record of your signature on any sterilization consent form in your file,” she said while looking at the screen. “But if the procedure was done at a private clinic, we’d need their documentation.”

I returned to Salamanca with a plan.

At Diego’s clinic, I had almost unlimited access. I was “the doctor’s wife.” One Tuesday afternoon, when the receptionist stepped out for coffee, I slipped into the administration office. My heart pounded in my throat as I searched for my name in the computer.

I found it.

“Comprehensive exam + diagnostic hysteroscopy.”
The date: that same Friday.

I opened the attached file. It was a scanned document—an informed consent form I had never read.

At the bottom was a signature.

My signature.

Or rather, a fairly convincing imitation.

I printed everything and placed the papers into a blue folder that I hid beneath a blanket in the trunk of my car.

That night, while Diego showered, I watched him through the fogged glass of the bathroom door. The same familiar body, the same gestures.

I wondered when exactly he had decided he had the right to choose for me.