The treatments came and went without any real results. Painkillers, hormones, rest. I stopped running, traveling, making plans. I also stopped arguing. When I had doubts, Javier would get offended, reminding me of his degrees and years of experience. My life began to revolve around the medical schedule he controlled. He never referred me to another specialist. He never sought a second opinion. He said it wasn’t necessary.

The turning point came when Javier traveled to a conference in Lisbon.

For the first time in years, the pain became unbearable, and he wasn’t there to minimize it. I went to the emergency room and ended up in the office of Dr. Andrés Molina, a gynecologist who didn’t know me and had no reason to lie to me. He silently studied the ultrasound for several minutes. I nervously joked to fill the silence. He didn’t smile.

“Who has treated you until now?” he asked, his voice tense. I told him the truth. Upon hearing my husband’s name, he paled. His clipboard slipped from his hands and hit the floor. “Laura,” he said slowly, “you need immediate surgery.” I tried to laugh, but he stopped me. “There’s a strange mass. It’s not recent. Someone saw it before. And someone decided not to act.”

In that instant, I understood that my pain hadn’t been ignored by mistake. It had been a choice. And that certainty, more than the diagnosis, left me breathless. I thought about every appointment, every report signed by Javier, the times he asked me to be patient. I felt fear, anger, and a betrayal difficult to name.

As the doctor called for the operating room, I understood that my marriage and my health were linked by a truth that was about to be revealed.

I had surgery that same night. The operation lasted longer than expected, and when I woke up, Dr. Molina’s face confirmed that nothing would ever be the same.

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