We had been married for five years and lived with his parents in a sprawling house on the outskirts of town, complete with a wide garden, a swimming pool, and a garage for two cars. From the outside, anyone would have thought I was living a dream. I had married into money and status.
My father-in-law, Agustín, was a stern, quiet man whose few words always carried weight. My mother-in-law, Carmen, was tiny but sharp-tongued, and in five years of marriage, there was one subject she never stopped pressing: children. We didn’t have any.
She often said things like:
“What kind of woman are you? Five years of marriage and still no child. At this rate, the family line ends with you. You need to go get checked, Elena.”
All I could do was lower my head, force a smile, and cry into my pillow at night. I had gone through treatment after treatment, visited hospital after hospital, and every result came back the same.
“There’s no clear issue. Keep monitoring.”
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