I went to a new gynecologist expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as the exam was over, he frowned and asked me in a strange tone who had treated me before; I replied naturally that it was my husband, who is also a gynecologist.

Álvaro offered me a seat in front of his desk. For several seconds neither of us spoke. Only the distant sound of the building’s elevator filled the silence.

“Explain,” I finally said.

He turned the computer screen toward me. The ultrasound images were frozen in gray tones with small measurement markers.

“Here,” he pointed. “This structure… appears to be a tubal ligation. But not a conventional one. These look like small implants that block the fallopian tubes. It’s a newer technique. It’s done in an operating room with sedation, and it certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by the patient.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“I’ve never…” My voice failed me.

I remembered every time Diego and I had talked about having children “later.” When the clinic was doing better. When I got promoted at the law firm. When…

There was always a later.

“Have you had any gynecological procedures in the last few years?” Álvaro asked carefully. “Any sedation, any ‘minor’ procedure in your husband’s clinic perhaps?”

My memory returned to a Friday afternoon a year and a half ago.

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