I went to a new gynecologist for a routine check-up, but as soon as he had finished the examination, he frowned and asked in a strange tone who had treated me before. I answered quite naturally that it had been my husband, who is also a gynecologist. Then the silence in the room became heavy—almost unbearable. He stared at me for a few seconds that seemed to last forever and said with a seriousness that sent shivers down my spine: “We need to do tests right now. What I see shouldn’t be there.” At that moment, I felt as if the ground was disappearing from under my feet.

I went to that new gynecologist almost automatically, as if I were ticking another box off my list of ‘responsible grown-up things’. I had put off my annual check-up for far too long, and Diego had been reminding me of it for weeks.

‘Make an appointment with someone reliable, someone from the public hospital. Then at least they won’t think I’m treating you out of partiality,’ he had said jokingly.

It was cold that March day in Madrid, and I was still wearing my coat when the nurse called my name.

“Lucía Martín.”

Doctor Álvaro Serrano’s practice was bright, with a large window overlooking a quiet street in Chamberí. He looked to be in his early forties, with graying hair, thin glasses, and a reserved, almost shy friendliness. He asked the usual questions: medical history, menstrual cycle, pregnancies. I nodded and answered briefly.

When I told him that my husband was also a gynecologist and worked at a private clinic in Salamanca, Álvaro raised his eyebrow slightly, full of curiosity.

‘Then you must be used to this by now,’ he joked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

I smiled politely. In reality, ever since Diego had opened his own clinic, we had avoided him becoming my doctor.

‘I find it difficult to separate the personal from the professional with you,’ he often said, as if that confession in itself were proof of love.

The examination began like any other: gloves, cold light, brief instructions. I stared at the ceiling, at the typical panel with clouds that was supposed to have a calming effect, but which always seemed ridiculous to me. I heard him switch instruments. The chair moved slightly. I noticed that he was leaning forward more than usual and that it took him too long to say anything.

The silence grew heavier and heavier.

I no longer thought about my shopping list or the unfinished work that was still waiting for me. Instead, I felt his heartbeat in my temples. He recoiled slightly, and I saw him frown behind his mask.

It was not the neutral, professional expression I was used to. It was discomfort. Or surprise. Or something worse.

‘Who treated you for this?’ he asked again, now in a deeper voice.

I swallowed.

‘My husband,’ I said. ‘Diego López. He is also a gynecologist.’

Álvaro stiffened. He slowly, almost deliberately, took off his gloves and threw them into the metal wastebasket with a dry sound, which startled me for a moment. Then he walked to his desk without looking me directly in the eye.

‘Lucía,’ he said finally, and used my first name for the first time, ‘we have to run tests right now. What I see… shouldn’t be there.’

The air around me suddenly felt heavy. I sat up slightly straighter on the examination table, still covered by the paper gown.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, my voice sharper than usual.

He avoided a direct answer. He pressed the bell to call the nurse, opened the ultrasound screen, and began preparing the equipment. His hands moved quickly, but his eyes remained tense and alert.

‘We are going to perform a transvaginal ultrasound now,’ he announced, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. ‘I just need to confirm something.’

The door opened, the nurse came in, and cold gel touched my skin. Gray shapes appeared on the screen – patterns that would be understandable to someone trained to read them.

Not for me.