He was standing in the kitchen with his coffee, acting as if nothing in the world could disturb his perfect little calm.

I had not slept.

Diego didn’t know that. Then again, there were many things he no longer knew about me. Knowing someone required attention, and Diego had stopped giving me that long before I realized where his attention had gone.

The appointment with Dr. Salinas was supposed to be simple.

Quick.

Private.

But Diego had insisted on coming, and I had not managed to stop him in time.

“Mr. Diego,” Dr. Salinas said, her voice steady, “before you say anything else, you need to look at what is on this screen.”

Diego gave a short laugh.

The kind of laugh a man gives when he is completely sure he is right.

“How far along is she?”

Dr. Salinas turned the monitor toward him without changing her expression.

“Your wife is not six weeks pregnant. She is not seven. Based on the measurements and her dates, she is approximately twelve weeks pregnant.”

The room fell silent.

Twelve.

The number lodged itself in my chest.

Diego blinked.

For the first time in weeks, his certainty began to crack.

“That’s not possible,” he said.

The doctor pointed at the screen. “These are the measurements. They are not based on opinion.”

Paola, who had followed him into the room as if she had any right to be there, stopped touching her hair.

“But he had surgery two months ago,” she said.

“Exactly,” Dr. Salinas replied. “And this pregnancy began before that.”

Something inside me loosened.

Not completely.

Not enough to feel free.

But enough to breathe.

Diego moved closer to the screen. “No. The dates must be wrong.”

Dr. Salinas looked at him with quiet firmness.

“A few days can vary. Not an entire month. And a vasectomy does not make a man sterile immediately. Follow-up tests are required. Did you complete your semen analysis?”

Diego said nothing.

 

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