The air conditioning in Mexico City’s General Hospital hummed monotonously as Patricia Mendoza, a 32-year-old woman with light brown skin and black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, squeezed her husband’s hand tightly. Alejandro Vega, a respected businessman in the local community, stared at the office door, his leg tapping rhythmically in a barely contained gesture of impatience. The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee.

Through the windows, the Mexico City afternoon sun cast long shadows across the worn linoleum floor. Three years had passed trying to conceive, three years of dashed hopes month after month, three years of awkward silences and mounting tension in their marriage. “Mrs. Mendoza, you may come in,” the nurse announced with a professional but distant smile. Patricia felt her stomach clench as she and Alejandro entered the office of Dr. Ramírez, a renowned fertility specialist.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with thin-framed glasses and gray hair, greeted them with a solemn gesture that Patricia immediately interpreted as a bad omen. “Please take a seat,” the doctor said as he arranged several folders on his desk. “I have your test results.” Patricia settled into the chair, feeling the familiar lump in her throat that appeared at every doctor’s visit. Alejandro sat beside her, his posture stiff with discomfort. “Patricia,” Dr. Ramírez began, “the tests show that you have a condition called premature ovarian insufficiency.”

This means your ovaries have stopped functioning normally earlier than expected for your age. The doctor continued explaining the details of the condition, but the words reached Patricia as if through a thick fog. Only fragmented phrases penetrated her consciousness. Very low probability, expensive treatments, consider other options. “Are you sure?” Alejandro interrupted, leaning forward. “It couldn’t be a mistake.” Dr. Ramírez shook his head. “The tests are conclusive. Patricia is infertile. With current treatments, the chances of conceiving are extremely low.”

The word “infertile” echoed in the small room like a gunshot. Patricia felt the world around her fading away as the pressure in her chest grew unbearable. But Patricia tried to speak. Her voice was barely a whisper. “There must be something we can do. There are a few options,” the doctor replied, his tone softening slightly. “We can consider hormonal treatments, although with your specific condition, they wouldn’t be very promising. There’s also in-vitro fertilization with donor eggs or adoption.” Alejandro stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

“Are you saying my wife will never be able to give me children?” “Never.” Dr. Ramirez maintained his professional expression. Mr. Vega, I understand your frustration, but you don’t understand,” Alejandro snapped. “Three years wasted, thousands of pesos spent on tests and treatments. For what? So you can tell me now that it’s impossible?” Patricia watched her husband, recognizing the signs of his rising anger: the throbbing vein in his chest, his hands clenched into fists, his rapid breathing. She had seen this transformation before, but never in public.

“Alejandro, please,” Patricia pleaded, aware of the doctor’s uncomfortable gaze. They left the office in a tense silence that continued as they walked down the long hospital corridor. Patricia felt that each step took her further from her dreams of motherhood, from the family she had always imagined. Beside her, Alejandro walked with stiff, hurried steps. “I can’t believe it,” he finally murmured when they reached the waiting room, empty at that hour. “All these years, and now you tell me you’re useless.” The words struck Patricia like a whip.

Useless. Is that what I am to you now? What did you expect? I married you to start a family. Alejandro raised his voice, his face flushed with anger. My mother was right. I should have married Lucía. She already has two children with her husband. Patricia recoiled as if she had been physically assaulted. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This isn’t my fault, Alejandro. It’s a medical condition, a condition that’s ruining our lives, Alejandro shouted. And before Patricia could react, his hand moved in a swift arc, striking her cheek with enough force to make her stagger.

The sound of the slap seemed to freeze time. Patricia brought her hand to her burning cheek, her eyes wide with shock and pain. Never, in their six years of marriage, had Alejandro hit her. A nurse passing by in the corridor stopped, looking at them with alarm. “Is everything alright?” “No,” Patricia replied, her voice trembling but firm. “It’s not alright at all.” Alejandro seemed to snap out of his trance of anger, staring at his own hand with a mixture of surprise and shame.

Patricia found him, but she was already backing away, shaking her head. “Don’t follow me, Alejandro. Don’t you dare follow me.” With what little dignity she could muster, Patricia turned and walked toward the hospital exit, leaving Alejandro motionless in the middle of the corridor, watched by the staff and patients who had witnessed the scene. At that moment, as the automatic doors opened before her and the hot Mexico City air hit her face, Patricia knew that nothing would ever be the same.

Three days had passed since the incident at the hospital. Patricia watched the city from the small terrace of her sister Sofía’s apartment in Coyoacán, a historic neighborhood in Mexico City. The sky was covered with gray clouds that threatened rain, perfectly reflecting her mood. “Another coffee?” Sofía asked, appearing in the doorway with a steaming cup. Patricia shook her head. “Thank you, but I can’t drink any more coffee. I’m already too nervous.” Sofía, five years younger than Patricia but often more level-headed, sat down next to her.

Have you decided what you’re going to do? I can’t go back to him, Sofia. No, not after this. And about the diagnosis, are you going to get a second opinion? Patricia had been considering this possibility, not because she doubted Dr. Ramirez’s diagnosis, but because she needed to hear it from someone else, to process the information differently. I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Elena Fuentes for tomorrow, she finally replied. She’s a fertility specialist at Hospital Ángeles. Do you want me to come with you? No, this is something I need to do on my own.

Patricia squeezed her sister’s hand. “But thank you.” That night, as she tried to fall asleep in Sofia’s guest bed, Patricia’s phone vibrated for the umpteenth time. It was another message from Alejandro. “Please forgive me. It was a moment of madness. I love you. Come home.” Patricia placed the phone face down on the nightstand without replying. Alejandro’s apologies sounded hollow after what he had said, after what he had done. She closed her eyes, trying not to think about the 32 missed calls and 26 messages she had received in the last three days.

The next morning dawned surprisingly clear. Patricia dressed carefully, choosing a navy blue dress that gave her confidence, and took a taxi to Hospital Ángeles. The modern building, with its glass walls reflecting the sky, contrasted sharply with the general hospital where she had received the initial diagnosis. Dr. Elena Fuentes turned out to be a woman in her fifties with a calming presence and kind eyes behind designer glasses. “I’ve reviewed the results you brought, Mrs. Mendoza,” she said after examining the documents, “but I’d like to run some additional tests before confirming the diagnosis.”

Patricia nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope. “Do you think there might have been a mistake?” “In medicine, it’s always good to be thorough,” the doctor replied diplomatically. “Besides, some of the tests you had are a bit unusual for a diagnosis of premature ovarian insufficiency.” Patricia frowned. “Unusual? In what way?” “For example,” the doctor pointed out, “this hormone analysis isn’t the standard we usually use, and some tests we would normally order are missing.” A shiver ran down Patricia’s spine. “You’re suggesting there was some kind of irregularity.”

Dr. Fuentes looked directly at her. “I’m not suggesting anything yet, Mrs. Mendoza, but I’d like to run some more tests to be sure.” The following days were a whirlwind of new medical tests. Patricia underwent blood work, ultrasounds, and more hormone studies. During that time, Alejandro’s messages became more insistent, alternating between desperate pleas and veiled accusations. A week later, Patricia returned to Dr. Fuentes’s office to get the results. “Mrs. Mendoza,” the doctor began with a serious expression, “I have your test results, and I must tell you that they show no evidence of premature ovarian insufficiency.” Patricia stood motionless, processing the information.

“You’re saying I’m not infertile. Your ovaries are functioning normally for a woman your age,” Dr. Fuentes confirmed. In fact, all of your fertility indicators are within normal ranges. “But how is that possible?” Dr. Ramirez said. “I’ve thoroughly reviewed your previous results,” the doctor interrupted. “And I’ve found troubling discrepancies.” She paused before continuing. “Ms. Mendoza, I believe the results you were shown were manipulated.” The room seemed to revolve around Patricia. Manipulated.

Are you suggesting that someone intentionally altered my results? I can’t say for sure without further investigation, Dr. Fuentes responded cautiously. But the inconsistencies are too specific to be accidental errors. Patricia felt breathless. Why would anyone do something like that? That’s a question I ask myself, too, the doctor said. Is there someone who might benefit from you believing you’re infertile? The image of Alejandro immediately flashed into Patricia’s mind, his insistence on visiting Dr. [name missing] specifically.

Ramírez, even though there were other specialists with better reputations. Her overreaction in the office and then, like a flash of clarity, Patricia remembered something. Dr. Ramírez’s secretary was Alejandro’s cousin. “My God,” Patricia murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Mrs. Mendoza, my husband,” Patricia replied in a barely audible voice. “I think my husband might be involved in this.” Dr. Fuentes maintained her professional expression, but Patricia could see the concern in her eyes.

Ms. Mendoza, what we’re discussing is extremely serious. If your suspicions are correct, this would constitute a grave ethical violation and possibly a crime. I know that, Patricia said, feeling a growing determination replace her initial shock. And I need to know the truth. Leaving the hospital, Patricia didn’t take a taxi back to Sofia’s apartment. Instead, she went straight to the house she shared with Alejandro in Polanco, one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. She needed answers, and she needed them now.

The house in Polanco remained exactly as Patricia had left it a week before, but she saw it now with different eyes. The expensive furniture, the carefully selected works of art, the sterile perfection of each room. It all seemed part of an elaborate lie. Patricia entered using her key, knowing Alejandro would be home. It was Thursday afternoon, and he always worked from home on Thursdays. She found him in his office talking on the phone with what appeared to be a client.

Upon seeing her, his eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly ended the call. “Patricia,” he said, rising from his chair. “Have you returned?” “I haven’t returned,” she replied, keeping a discreet distance. “I’ve come looking for answers.” Alejandro seemed confused. “Answers, Patricia. If it’s about what happened at the hospital, I’ve already apologized a thousand times. I lost control. I admit it. But why did you lie to me about my fertility?” The question landed like a bombshell in the room. Alejandro froze, his face a mask of confusion that Patricia could now recognize as fake.

“What are you talking about?” he finally asked, but his voice had lost its firmness. “I saw another doctor,” Patricia explained, carefully observing her husband’s every reaction. “Dr. Fuentes says I don’t have premature ovarian insufficiency. She says I’m perfectly fertile.” Alejandro ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture Patricia knew well. “There must be some mistake.” Dr. Ramírez is a renowned specialist and, coincidentally, he’s been a friend of yours since college, right? And his secretary is your cousin Carmela.

“Is this also a coincidence?” Alejandro’s face began to show cracks in its facade. “Patricia, you’re jumping to conclusions. Dr. Ramirez may have been wrong, but that doesn’t mean my results were manipulated,” Patricia interrupted, taking a step toward him. “He wasn’t wrong, Alejandro. Someone deliberately altered my results to make me believe I was infertile.” Alejandro backed away until his back touched the desk. For a moment, Patricia saw panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by a calculating expression.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said with a forced laugh. “Why would I do something like that? I want to have children, remember? It’s what I’ve always wanted.” “That’s what you’ve always said,” Patricia replied. “But now I wonder if it’s true.” She moved closer to the desk, and Alejandro shifted nervously as if afraid she might discover something. That small gesture was all the confirmation Patricia needed. “What are you hiding, Alejandro?” “Nothing,” he replied too quickly. “You’re acting like a lunatic.” Patricia ignored the insult and glanced around the office.

Her eyes fell on a half-open desk drawer. Before Alejandro could react, she reached over and opened it completely. Inside were several pill bottles she didn’t recognize. “What’s this?” she asked, taking one of the bottles. Alejandro tried to snatch it back, but Patricia was faster. She read the label. Finasteride. C Mena. “Give that back,” Alejandro demanded, his voice strained. “What’s this medicine for?” Patricia pulled out her phone and quickly searched online. Her eyes widened in surprise as she read.

It’s for hair loss, but it also says it can cause sterility in men. Alejandro paled visibly. “You’ve been taking this for years,” Patricia continued, putting the pieces together. “That’s why you insisted the problem must be mine. That’s why you specifically took me to Dr. Ramirez. You’re the infertile one, not me.” “You don’t understand,” Alejandro said, his voice now a whisper. “My family, my father, the Vegas have always had children. It’s part of our heritage. I couldn’t admit that I was the problem.”

Patricia stared at him in disbelief. “So you decided to make me believe I was infertile. You subjected me to unnecessary treatments. You made me feel like a failure for three years.” “I was going to suggest adoption eventually,” Alejandro defended himself weakly. “Or a sperm donor. No one had to know that I, or you, were infertile, or that you’re a liar and a manipulator.” Patricia felt anger rising inside her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through? The nights I spent crying, blaming myself.” Alejandro seemed to shrink at her words.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was afraid of losing you.” “No,” Patricia replied firmly. “You were afraid of losing your image, your precious Vega name, and what people would think of you.” She shook her head in disgust. “And when you thought you were going to be exposed, you hit me in public.” “That was a mistake,” Alejandro said, trying to take her hand. “I lost control.” Patricia stepped back. “A mistake, like lying to me for years, like conspiring with a doctor to falsify my results.” She took a deep breath. “This is over, Alejandro.”

“I’m going to divorce you.” “You can’t do that,” he replied, his tone suddenly changing. “We have a prenuptial agreement. You won’t get a thing.” Patricia smiled humorlessly. “Do you think I care about your money? All I wanted from you was a family, and even that wasn’t real.” She headed for the door. “Oh, and about the prenuptial agreement, I’m sure a judge will find it invalid when I present evidence of abuse and medical fraud.” “Medical fraud.” Alejandro’s face went pale.

“You can’t prove anything. Dr. Fuentes is willing to testify about the manipulation of my results,” Patricia replied. “And I’m sure Carmela, your cousin, won’t risk her career to protect you.” Before Alejandro could respond, Patricia pulled out her phone and showed him the screen. She had been recording the entire conversation. “This might come in handy, too,” she added. “Goodbye, Alejandro.” With those words, Patricia left the office and the house, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

As she walked down the elegant Polanco street, breathing in the evening air, she knew that although the road ahead would be difficult, she was finally free. Six months later, Patricia observed Mexico City from a different perspective. Sitting on the terrace of a small café in La Condesa, she watched people stroll along the tree-lined streets while she waited for her lawyer, Luisa Garza. The past few months had been an emotional rollercoaster. After filing for divorce, Alejandro had oscillated between desperate pleas and veiled threats.

He had tried to discredit her to friends and family, portraying her as an emotionally unstable woman obsessed with having children. But Patricia was no longer the same woman who had silently endured years of manipulation. With the support of her sister Sofía, legal counsel from Luisa, and medical evidence from Dr. Fuentes, she had filed not only for divorce but also a formal complaint against Dr. Ramírez for medical negligence and falsifying results. “Sorry I’m late,” Luisa said, suddenly appearing and sitting down across from her.

The lawyer, a 40-year-old woman with a formidable reputation in divorce cases, placed her briefcase on the table. “Traffic is impossible today.” “Don’t worry,” Patricia replied. “I just got here.” Luisa ordered a coffee and then opened her briefcase, taking out several documents. “I have news,” she announced with a restrained smile. “Alejandro has accepted our terms.” Patricia felt her heart race. “All of them, every single one,” Luisa confirmed: “the divorce on his behalf, the equitable division of assets, despite the prenuptial agreement and the promise not to speak publicly about the case.”

She paused before adding, “And most importantly, he’s signed a confession about conspiring with Dr. Ramirez to falsify your medical results.” Patricia exhaled slowly, feeling a mixture of relief and vindication. “Why did he give in so easily? I thought he’d fight to the end.” “It wasn’t easy,” Luisa explained, “but when the Medical Association began its own investigation into Dr. Ramirez, and he hinted that he was willing to implicate Alejandro to save himself, well, let’s just say your ex-husband figured it was better to cut his losses.”

Patricia nodded, processing the information and the complaint against Dr. Ramírez. “The Medical Association has temporarily suspended his license while the investigation continues,” Luisa replied. “With his confession and the evidence we have, it’s almost certain he’ll lose it permanently.” A waiter brought Luisa and Patricia’s coffee. She took the opportunity to look up at the clear Mexico City sky. It was one of those rare afternoons when the pollution eased and the mountains could be seen in the distance.

“How are you feeling?” Luisa asked after the waiter left. Patricia considered the question, relieved, finally answered, but also strangely empty, as if she had been struggling for so long that now she didn’t know what to do with her energy. Luisa smiled sympathetically. “It’s normal. You’ve been in survival mode for months, years really, if you count all the time with Alejandro.” “Six years,” Patricia confirmed. “Six years of my life, but now you have your whole future ahead of you,” Luisa pointed out. “Have you thought about what you want to do?” Patricia had been considering this question for weeks.

Yes, I have decided to resume my career in social work. Before marrying Alejandro, I was finishing my master’s degree. “That sounds perfect for you,” Luisa commented. “And is there anything else?” Patricia added, feeling a mixture of nervousness and excitement. “I’ve been in contact with a fertility clinic, a legitimate one this time.” Luisa looked at her in surprise. “You’re thinking about having a child on your own?” Patricia nodded. “I always wanted to be a mother. The fact that my marriage was a sham doesn’t change that.”

Artificial insemination. Yes, I’ve already started the donor selection process. Patricia smiled. It turns out I have perfectly healthy eggs and an exceptionally receptive uterus. According to my new doctor, Luisa raised her coffee cup for new beginnings. Then, Patricia clinked her cup against Luisa’s, for truth and for the freedom to choose our own path. After saying goodbye to Luisa, Patricia walked through Parque México, watching the families enjoying the afternoon. Children running around, watchful parents, grandparents sitting on benches—everyday scenes that had once caused her pain, but now filled her heart with hope.

Her phone vibrated with a message from the doctor. Fuentes. Good results from your latest tests. All set to begin whenever you are. Patricia smiled, putting her phone in her bag. The sun was beginning to set over Mexico City, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. It was a beautiful sight she had stopped noticing for years, too consumed by her pain and her struggle to please Alejandro. As she walked toward the subway station, Patricia thought about the long and difficult road she had traveled.

The false diagnosis, the slap in the hospital, the betrayal, the confrontation, the divorce. Every step had been painful, but each had led her to where she was now: free, strong, and ready to write her own story. The city lay before her, vibrant and full of possibilities, just like her future. Patricia breathed deeply into the evening air, savoring the sweet sensation of freedom and the promise of a new beginning. For the first time in a long time, she felt at peace with herself and excited for what was to come.

The distant sound of children’s laughter in the park accompanied her as she walked away, striding confidently towards her new destination, towards her rebirth.