He was in the kitchen drinking coffee, as if nothing in the world could break that false calm.
I had not slept. Diego did not know that. He did not know a lot of things about me anymore, because knowing requires paying attention, and Diego had stopped paying attention to me around the same time he started paying it elsewhere.
The appointment with Dr. Salinas was supposed to be quick. He had insisted on coming. I had not been able to stop him in time.
“Mr. Diego,” the doctor said, “before you say anything else, you need to see what is shown here.”
Diego let out a laugh. The kind men use when they are certain they are right.
“What age?”
Dr. Salinas turned the screen toward him without losing her composure.
“Your wife is not six weeks pregnant. She is not seven. Based on the embryo’s measurements and the date of her last period, we are talking about approximately twelve weeks.”
The office went quiet.
Twelve.
The word stuck in my chest like a splinter.
Diego blinked. Confused. The numbers were speaking to him in a language his certainty had not prepared him for.
“That can’t be,” he said.
The doctor pointed at the screen. “Here is the measurement. This was not invented to please anyone.”
Paola stopped stroking her hair. She had come with him. She had stood there like she had earned the right to be in the room where I was lying with cold gel on my belly.
“But he had surgery two months ago,” Paola said.
“Exactly,” replied the doctor. “And this pregnancy began before that date.”
I felt something inside me loosen. Not complete relief. It was as if a rope that had been tightening around my neck for weeks had eased by barely a centimeter.
Diego approached the screen. “No. The dates are wrong.”
Dr. Salinas 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 does not 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.
