In January, Luisa Martínez García entered menopause. At first, it came without much complication. No hot flashes, no night sweats, no heart palpitations or migraines. Her period simply stopped: “Hello old age, here I come,” she thought with a touch of irony.
Luisa didn’t go to the doctor; she had read enough and her friends had already shared their own experiences. “You’re lucky,” they told her. “It’s strange how well you’re handling it!”
As if they’d jinxed her. Soon, strange symptoms began to appear: sudden mood swings, dizziness, a fatigue that weighed her down like lead. She struggled to bend down and play with her granddaughter Lucía, lost her appetite, and developed a new, persistent back pain. Mornings left her with a puffy face; by afternoon, her legs felt heavy as stone. Her daughters-in-law were the first to sound the alarm: “You look pale, mom. Get checked out — this isn’t normal!”
Luisa kept quiet. Deep down, she already suspected something wasn’t right. Then came the burning pain in her chest, unbearable to the touch, and a tugging sensation in her lower abdomen that robbed her of sleep. Night after night, she cried silently beside her husband Andrés — a relentless snorer — staring at the ceiling, replaying memories.
She didn’t want to die. She was only fifty-two, not even retired yet. She and Andrés had been looking for a small house in the mountains for their retirement. Her children were thriving, her daughters-in-law dyed her grays and helped her pick out loose-fitting clothes. Lucía, her treasure, would start elementary school in the fall — figure skating, colorful drawings… she was already knitting scarves thanks to her grandmother.
Spring and summer passed with great difficulty. By September, she was overwhelmed by a stabbing pain in her side and back. She finally booked a doctor’s appointment.
Almost the entire family accompanied her to the clinic. Andrés and their eldest son waited in the car; the daughters-in-law stayed in the waiting room. After the routine questions, the gynecologist turned pale during the exam. “Oncology, urgent!” she shouted into the phone. “Final stage. I can’t locate the uterus!”
On the way to the hospital, Luisa screamed in her daughters-in-law’s arms. Andrés wept openly. And when the pain gave her a break, she gazed out the window at the golden autumn poplars of Madrid, silently saying goodbye. Who would walk Lucía to school? Who would taste her first cookies?
In the ER, total chaos. Amid gurneys and rushing doctors, a midwife suddenly emerged, triumphant: “It’s a boy! Three and a half kilos!” The family hugged through tears, while Andrés, stunned, mumbled, “But we only celebrated my name day… just one extra glass of wine…”
The midwife winked: “Grandpa, looks like you’ll need diapers and champagne. What a romantic nap that must’ve been!”
In the delivery room, between gasps, Dr. Carmen Rodríguez — the head physician — looked at Luisa and asked, “So, do you blame the wine too?”
“Blame the love,” Luisa whispered, exhausted. “I had just turned fifty-two…”
“Well, you nearly got stuck at forty-nine,” the doctor joked. “Push, warrior! That ‘tumor’ wants out!”
When the baby was shown, the daughters-in-law cried out, “He looks just like Grandpa!” Andrés, red as a tomato, muttered, “Well… I guess the gym is paying off.”
Meanwhile, in the waiting room, little Lucía was drawing a family tree — now with a few extra branches.