Two heartbeats.

Two lives.

My mother arrived that afternoon. I had sent her the picture with only one sentence.

There are two.

She came in crying and wrapped her arms around me without asking anything.

I told her everything.

The vasectomy without follow-up.

The twelve weeks.

The second baby.

Diego’s face.

Paola’s face.

My mother listened with the calm of a woman who had seen too much pain and knew exactly what silence could hide.

When I finished, she put water on for tea.

“Now you are going to do three things,” she said.

“What?”

“Eat. Sleep. And call a lawyer.”

“Mother—”

“That man has already shown you what he does when he feels trapped. You are not going to walk barefoot over broken glass.”

The next day, Diego started calling.

First ten times.

Then twenty.

Then messages.

Forgive me.

I made a mistake.

Paola means nothing.

I was confused.

They are my children.

My children.

The phrase made me sick.

The same babies who had been proof of my supposed betrayal were suddenly his because a doctor’s screen had repaired his pride.

I did not answer.

That evening, I hired the lawyer my mother recommended.

Irene Robles.

A woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and red nails.

When she heard my story, she didn’t act shocked. She simply took notes.

“Do you have messages about the vasectomy?” she asked.

“Yes. He said he was doing it because he didn’t want more children right now, but that maybe later we would talk again.”

“Did he attend the follow-up appointment?”

“No.”

 

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