Álvaro offered me a seat in front of his desk. For several seconds neither of us spoke. Only the distant sound of the building’s elevator filled the silence.
“Explain,” I finally said.
He turned the computer screen toward me. The ultrasound images were frozen in gray tones with small measurement markers.
“Here,” he pointed. “This structure… appears to be a tubal ligation. But not a conventional one. These look like small implants that block the fallopian tubes. It’s a newer technique. It’s done in an operating room with sedation, and it certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by the patient.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“I’ve never…” My voice failed me.
I remembered every time Diego and I had talked about having children “later.” When the clinic was doing better. When I got promoted at the law firm. When…
There was always a later.
“Have you had any gynecological procedures in the last few years?” Álvaro asked carefully. “Any sedation, any ‘minor’ procedure in your husband’s clinic perhaps?”
My memory returned to a Friday afternoon a year and a half ago.
