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 swallowed hard.

“My husband,” I said. “Diego López. He’s also a gynecologist.”

Álvaro froze. Slowly, almost deliberately, he removed his gloves and tossed them into the metal wastebasket with a dry sound that made me jump slightly. Then he walked over to his desk, not looking me directly in the eye.

“Lucía,” he finally said, using my name for the first time, “we need to run tests immediately. What I’m seeing… shouldn’t be there.”

The air around me suddenly felt heavy. I sat down lightly on the examination table, still covered by the paper apron.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice sharper than usual.

He avoided a direct answer. He rang the bell for a nurse, opened the ultrasound screen, and began preparing the equipment. His hands moved quickly, but his gaze remained tense and alert.

“We’re about to do a transvaginal ultrasound,” he announced, trying to sound routine. “I just… need to confirm something.”

The door opened, a nurse entered, and cold gel touched my skin. Gray shapes appeared on the screen—patterns that someone who could read them would understand.