My mother-in-law sent me home because she called me “infertile,” and my husband, who didn’t even say a word, gave me a check for five million dollars – as if it were compensation for all our time together as husband and wife…

I rented a small apartment on the edge of the city and tried to rebuild myself without the Moreno name. I slept badly, cried in silence, and told myself the worst was over.

Then my body began to change.

The nausea came first. Then the exhaustion. I blamed stress—divorce does that to people. But my doctor insisted on tests. I agreed, mostly to prove there was nothing else wrong.

The day of the appointment, I walked into the clinic and felt something twist in my chest.

Sebastián was there. So was Laura, the woman now openly at his side, his hand resting on her stomach. Dolores sat next to them, smiling proudly.

They were there for a prenatal visit.

They didn’t notice me at first. I sat quietly until I heard my name called.

Inside the examination room, the doctor studied the screen longer than usual. His brow furrowed—then relaxed into a smile.

“Congratulations, Isabella,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”

I barely had time to breathe before he added:

“And you’re carrying twins.”

The words echoed beyond the room. In the hallway, I heard gasps. I heard Sebastián’s voice—unsteady, calling my name.

The doctor continued, calm and professional. Two heartbeats. Normal development. Clear results.