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 don’t know yet,” I replied, looking him in the eye. “But I’ll find out.”

In the following weeks my life divided into two layers.

On the surface, everything went on as usual: work at a law firm in Salamanca, dinners with friends, visits from the in-laws, Sunday afternoons spent watching TV series on the couch with Diego.

Deep inside, in silence, I began gathering evidence—medical reports, copies of emails, anything that could connect me to that Friday appointment with anesthesia and the so-called “deep exam.”

Álvaro referred me to a colleague at the Hospital Clínico de Madrid, Dr. Teresa Valverde. She immediately confirmed the diagnosis: the implants had been properly placed, and the procedure was practically irreversible, except for a complex operation that offered no guarantees.

“Did I sign anything?” I asked desperately, even though I already knew the answer.

“There’s no record in your file of you signing the sterilization consent form,” she said, looking at the screen. “But if the procedure was performed at a private clinic, we would need their documentation.”

I returned to Salamanca with a plan.
At Diego’s clinic, I had almost unlimited access. I was the “doctor’s wife.” One Tuesday afternoon, while the receptionist was out getting coffee, I slipped into the administrative office. My heart pounded in my throat as I searched for my name on the computer.

I found it.

“Comprehensive examination + diagnostic hysteroscopy.” Date: same Friday.

I opened the attached file. It was a scanned document—an informed consent form I had never read.

There was a signature at the bottom.

My signature.

Or rather, a rather convincing imitation.

I’m printing