Diego let out a laugh.
—What age?
The doctor turned the screen towards him, without losing her composure.
—Your wife is not six weeks pregnant. She’s not seven. Based on the embryo’s measurements and the date of her last period, we’re talking about approximately twelve weeks.
The doctor’s office remained quiet.
Twelve.
The word stuck in my chest.
Diego blinked, confused, as if the numbers were speaking to him in another language.
“That can’t be,” he said.
The doctor pointed at the screen.
—Here’s the measurement. This wasn’t invented to please anyone.
Paola stopped stroking her hair.
—But he had surgery two months ago.
—Exactly —replied the doctor—. And this pregnancy began before that date.
I felt something inside me loosen.
It wasn’t complete relief.
It was as if a rope that had been tightening around my neck for weeks loosened by barely a centimeter.
Diego approached the screen.
—No. Let’s see. That could be wrong. The dates are wrong.
The doctor looked at him with a seriousness that gave me strength.
—There can be variations of a few days. Not a whole month. Also, a vasectomy doesn’t make a man sterile the next day. Follow-up tests are required to confirm the absence of sperm. Did you have your follow-up semen analysis?
Diego remained silent.
There he was.
The truth, small and brutal.
I hadn’t gone.
Because Diego always believed that once you decided something, it was done.
Paola looked at him.
—Didn’t you get tested?
He clenched his jaw.
—It wasn’t necessary.
The doctor took a deep breath.
—Yes, it was necessary.
I was still lying down, with the cold gel on my belly and my heart pounding against my ribs.
“So…” I murmured, “could the baby have been conceived before the vasectomy?”
