“You were never capable of choosing. Someone had to do it. And it was a safe procedure. You were asleep. You didn’t suffer. Look at your life now—your career, your freedom…”

“My freedom,” I repeated, tasting the word like poison. “Do you know I’ve seen two other doctors? That this is a crime?”

For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. Not for what he had done—but for the consequences.

“We can fix this,” he said quickly. “We can look into alternatives—IVF, whatever you want. But don’t file a complaint. No one will believe you. I’m a respected professional, Lucía. And you… you’ve always been a little unstable about these things.”

The threat hung there, wrapped in a reasonable tone.

No one will believe you.

In Spain, in a smaller city like Salamanca, reputation is everything. I knew the Medical Association would protect him as much as possible. I knew his colleagues would close ranks.

I also knew my life would become a battlefield if I reported him—rumors, interviews, lawyers, trials.

Even so, the following Monday I was sitting in a police station with the blue folder on my lap, telling my story to an officer who wrote notes without looking up much.