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.

When I mentioned that my husband was also a gynecologist and worked in a private clinic in Salamanca, Álvaro raised an eyebrow with slight curiosity.

“So you’re probably used to all this by now,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

I smiled politely. Truth be told, ever since Diego opened his own clinic, we’d avoided him as my doctor.

“It’s hard for me to separate personal and professional matters,” he would say, as if this declaration itself was proof of love.

The exam started like any other: gloves, cold light, brief instructions. I stared at the ceiling, at the typical cloud panel that was supposed to be calming but always struck me as absurd. I heard him change instruments. The chair shifted slightly. I noticed he leaned forward more than usual and took too long to say anything.

The silence thickened.
I stopped thinking about the shopping list or the unfinished work that awaited me. Instead, I felt my pulse pounding in my temples. He pulled away slightly, and I saw him frown behind his mask.

It wasn’t the neutral, professional expression I was used to. It was discomfort. Or surprise. Or something worse.

“Who treated you before?” he asked again, this time in a deeper voice.