At the time, I believed my life had collapsed completely.

But a year after the divorce, when I was working quietly in a legal archive in Valencia and struggling to cover my rent, I received an unexpected phone call from the clinic.

They asked if I planned to continue paying for the embryo storage.

I assumed they had confused me with another patient.

They hadn’t.

The following day I returned to Seville and requested my full medical records.

Inside a folder I had never seen before were two documents that changed everything.

The first was a consent form signed by both Álvaro and me authorizing the freezing of six viable embryos.

The second was a laboratory correction issued forty-eight hours before our divorce.

The real fertility problem had never been mine.

It had been his.

I left the clinic trembling, holding the copies against my chest, a new certainty burning inside me.

I didn’t call him.

I didn’t confront him.

I simply continued with my life.

Years later Mateo was born, followed by the twins Alba and Bruno, and finally Irene.

All four came from those embryos Álvaro had signed without even bothering to read the paperwork.

Back at the gala, Álvaro lifted his eyes toward the entrance.

First he recognized me.

Then he saw Mateo.

Then Alba.

Then Bruno.

Finally Irene.

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