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.

Then we went to dinner as if nothing had happened.

The nausea turned into a silent, angry knot.

“There was this one time…” I began. “He gave me a sedative. He said it was only to do a more thorough examination.”

Álvaro closed his eyes for a moment, as if confirming something he feared.

“Lucía, what I’m about to tell you is very serious. This type of procedure… it’s sterilization. You can’t get pregnant naturally. And if you don’t remember this and never gave consent, then we’re talking about something completely illegal.”

The word “sterilization” hit me like a stone to the head.

I stared at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say it was a mistake, that the machine was broken.

But he didn’t look away.

“I want a second opinion,” I finally said, my voice turning cold and thin. “And I want a written report. A detailed one. With all the photos.”

“Of course,” he replied immediately. “We’ll prepare a full report. And, Lucía…”—he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice—”I know this is very difficult, but you should consider filing a complaint. It’s not only unethical. It’s a crime.”

I left the health center feeling as if the sidewalks had tilted slightly, forcing me to walk at an angle.

Madrid was the same as always – cars, people talking on the phone, the smell of coffee wafting from the cafes.