In Spain, in a smaller city like Salamanca, reputation is everything. I knew that the doctors’ association would protect him as much as possible. I knew that his colleagues would close ranks.
I also knew that my life would become a battlefield if I reported him: rumors, interviews, lawyers, lawsuits.
Nevertheless, the following Monday I sat at the police station with the blue folder on my lap, telling my story to an officer who was taking notes without looking up much.
Next came the statements, expert reports, and letters from the medical board, written in cool, carefully neutral language.
A few months later, the case was partially dismissed.
They said that there was “insufficient evidence of intentional forgery” regarding the signature. No one wanted to say with certainty that no permission had been given.
Diego received a mild ethical sanction from the medical disciplinary board: a temporary suspension from practicing his profession, which in fact only meant that he had to work in another province for a few months under a colleague’s name.
The clinic remained in operation.
Patients kept walking in and out.
I moved to Madrid.
I switched law firms, apartments, and even my favorite café. The divorce process was long and cold, like a disease that may subside but never completely disappears.
One day, walking through Fuencarral Street, I saw a young couple with a stroller. The baby was sleeping, completely unaware of the noise around him.
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
But it wasn’t just pain.
It was a bit more complex.
A few months later, during a routine check-up with Álvaro, he looked at me intently.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
I had said “fine” almost out of habit.
But I remained silent for a few seconds.
‘I am… here,’ I said finally. ‘I don’t know if I’m doing well. But I am here. And I know what was done to me. No one can erase that.’
Álvaro nodded without saying anything. He typed something into the computer, switched between screens, and continued his work.
Outside, Madrid continued to spin indifferently on its axis.
I left the clinic and merged into the crowd on the street.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had made something of a decision of my own.
I could not undo what Diego had done.
I could not change the system that had protected him.
But I could choose for myself how to deal with that reality.
And that choice – small, imperfect – was mine.
Only mine.
