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.

With anesthesia, and it certainly won’t escape the patient’s attention.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“I never…” My voice broke.

I remembered how many times Diego and I had talked about having children “later.” When the clinic was doing better. When I got a promotion at the law firm. When…

There was always a “later”.

“Have you had any gynecological procedures in the last few years?” Álvaro asked cautiously. “Any anesthesia, perhaps a “minor” procedure at your husband’s clinic?”

The memory flashed back to a Friday afternoon a year and a half ago.

I visited Diego at his clinic in Salamanca. He complained that he had very few patients that day.

“Excellent,” he said with a smile. “I’ll give you a full examination because I never have time for you.”

I remembered the smell of disinfectant. The metallic sheen of the tools. I remembered him giving me a mild sedative because I was tense after work.

I remembered waking up with a slight dizziness and a slight stomach ache, which he blamed on the “examination.”