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.

But something inside me broke in a place where air could no longer reach.

On the train back to Salamanca, I opened old messages from Diego.

There was one from last week:

“Someday, when everything calms down, we’ll have a baby. I promise.”

I read it over and over again, feeling each word slowly turn to poison.

When I got home, Diego was in the kitchen making a Spanish omelette.

“How did the exam go?” he asked without turning around, as if he had sent me to the dentist.

“Okay,” I lied, placing the bag on the table with exaggerated caution. “The doctor wants to repeat some tests.”

Diego turned around. His dark eyes searched my face.

“Any problem?”

I looked at him, trying to find the man I’d spent seven years with. I saw a confident doctor, a respected specialist in the city, a husband who always knew the right thing to say at dinner with friends. And for the first time, I also saw a man who, on one ordinary afternoon, could decide to cut himself off from my future without even asking me.