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.

Not I.

I only saw blurry shapes.

But Dr. Serrano’s face suddenly hardened, as if an invisible boundary had been crossed.

His gaze was fixed on a single point in the image, motionless, full of disbelief. His fingers hovered over the ultrasound machine’s buttons.

“God…” he whispered.

“What happened?” I insisted, now feeling terror mixed with sudden nausea.

He took a deep breath and turned to me with complete seriousness.

“Lucío, there’s something here that… looks like a previous surgical procedure. One that, according to your medical history, you’ve never had. And the procedure I see… is never performed without express consent.”

I dressed with trembling hands. The paper on the examination table rustled under my feet like dry leaves. The nurse quietly left, leaving us alone in the room.

Álvaro offered me a seat in front of his desk. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. The silence was filled only by the distant ding of the elevator.

“Explain,” I finally said.

He turned the computer screen toward me. The ultrasound images were frozen in shades of gray with small measurement markers.

“Here,” he pointed. “This structure… looks like a tubal ligation. But not the conventional kind. They look like small implants that block the fallopian tubes. It’s a newer technique. It’s performed in the operating room with…”