I went to a new gynecologist expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as the examination was over, he frowned and, in a strange tone, asked who had treated me before; I naturally replied, my husband, who is also a gynecologist.

I went to a new gynecologist, expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as he finished the examination, he frowned and asked in a strange tone who had treated me before. I replied, naturally, that it was my husband, who is also a gynecologist. Then the silence in the office became heavy—unbearable, even. He stared at me for what seemed like endless seconds and said with a seriousness that chilled my blood, “We need to do tests immediately. What I’m seeing shouldn’t be there.” At that moment, I felt as if the ground had fallen from under my feet.

I went to this new gynecologist almost automatically, like someone checking off another item on their “responsible adult” list. I’d put off my annual checkup for too long, and Diego had been reminding me for weeks.

“Make an appointment with someone trustworthy, someone at a public hospital. Then they won’t think I’m treating you out of favoritism,” he joked.

It was cold that March day in Madrid, and I was still wearing my coat when the nurse called my name.

“Lucía Martín”.

Dr. Álvaro Serrano’s office was bright, with a large window overlooking a quiet street in Chamberí. He looked to be in his forties, with graying hair, thin glasses, and a reserved, almost shy demeanor. He asked the usual questions: about my medical history, my periods, my pregnancies. I nodded and kept my answers short.