Mr. Diego, before you accuse your wife again… you need to see what’s shown here.
—You need to see the gestational age —said Dr. Salinas.
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.
“Click here to read the full story”.
