Diego laughed.
It was the confident, dismissive laugh of a man who believed the facts were already on his side.
“What age?”
Dr. Salinas calmly turned the ultrasound monitor toward him.
“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.”
Silence settled over the room.
Twelve.
The number lodged painfully in my chest.
Diego blinked at the screen, struggling to understand what the measurements meant.
His certainty had left him completely unprepared for the answer.
“That can’t be,” he said.
The doctor indicated the measurement displayed on the monitor.
“Here is the measurement. This was not invented to please anyone.”
Paola, who had accompanied him, stopped touching her hair.
She stood beside Diego as though she had every right to witness my examination.
As though she belonged in the room while I lay exposed on the examination table, cold ultrasound gel spread across my stomach.
