I went to a new gynecologist expecting a routine checkup, but as soon as he finished the exam, he frowned and asked in a strange tone who had treated me before. I answered naturally that it had been my husband, who is also a gynecologist. Then the silence in the room grew heavy—almost unbearable. He stared at me for several seconds that felt endless and said with a seriousness that chilled my blood: “We need to run tests right now. What I’m seeing shouldn’t be there.” In that moment, I felt as if the ground had vanished beneath my feet.I went to that new gynecologist almost automatically, like someone checking another box on the list of “responsible adult things.” I had postponed my annual exam for too long, and Diego had been reminding me for weeks.

Make an appointment with someone reliable, someone from the public hospital. That way they won’t think I’m treating you because of favoritism,” he had joked.That March day in Madrid was cold, and I was still wearing my coat when the nurse called my name.“Lucía Martín.”Dr. Álvaro Serrano’s office 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 kindness. He asked the usual questions: medical history, cycles, pregnancies. I nodded and answered with short replies.When I mentioned that my husband was also a gynecologist and worked at a private clinic in Salamanca, Álvaro raised an eyebrow with mild curiosity.Then you must already be used to all of this,” he joked, trying to lighten the moodI smiled politely. In truth, ever since Diego opened his own clinic, we had avoided having him be my doctor.“I find it hard to separate the personal from the professional with you,” he used to say, as if that confession itself were proof of love.