In January, Luisa Martínez García began menopause. At first, everything seemed uneventful. No hot flashes, no night sweats, no racing heart or migraines. Her period simply stopped. “Well, hello old age,” she thought wryly.

She didn’t go to a doctor—she’d read enough, and her friends had filled her in. “You’re one of the lucky ones,” they said. “Strange how easy it’s been for you!”

As if they’d cursed her.

Soon, things shifted: mood swings crept in, followed by dizzy spells and a bone-deep fatigue that never let up. Bending to play with her granddaughter Lucía became a chore. Her appetite vanished. A sharp ache settled into her back. Her face would swell by morning, and by late afternoon, her legs felt like lead. Her daughters-in-law were the first to say something: “Mom, you look pale. Please get checked. This doesn’t seem right.”

Luisa kept quiet. Inside, she already suspected something was wrong. Then came the heat in her chest—tender, painful—and a relentless tug in her lower belly that kept her up at night. Lying beside her husband Andrés—who snored without pause—she would silently cry into her pillow, her mind flooded with memories.

She didn’t want to die. She was only fifty-two. Not even close to retiring. She and Andrés had just started looking for a little house in the mountains, a place to spend their golden years. Her children were thriving. Her daughters-in-law helped dye her gray hairs, helped her pick out loose, soft clothing. Lucía—her little joy—was set to start elementary school that fall. She was skating, painting, even knitting little scarves thanks to Grandma’s lessons.

Spring and summer dragged by in a blur of pain. By September, the stabbing aches in her side and back became too much. She finally booked the appointment.

The whole family came. Andrés and their oldest son waited in the car. Her daughters-in-law stayed in the lobby. During the routine exam, the gynecologist’s face went pale. She picked up the phone: “Oncology, it’s urgent! Final stage. I can’t locate the uterus!”

In the car ride to the hospital, Luisa screamed in her daughters-in-law’s arms. Andrés broke down. And when the pain briefly lifted, she stared out the window at the golden Madrid poplars, whispering her goodbyes in silence. Who would walk Lucía to school? Who would be there to taste her first cookies?

The emergency room was chaos. Gurneys rushed past. Doctors barked orders. Until—suddenly—a midwife rushed in beaming: “It’s a boy! Three and a half kilos!”

The whole family froze, then exploded in laughter and tears. Andrés blinked, stunned. “We just celebrated my name day… just one extra glass of wine…”

The midwife grinned. “Grandpa, you better get the diapers and champagne ready. That must’ve been one memorable nap!”

In the delivery room, between contractions, Dr. Carmen Rodríguez turned to Luisa and asked, “So, are we blaming the wine?”

“Blame the love,” Luisa whispered through exhaustion. “I had just turned fifty-two…”

“Well, you nearly wrapped things up at forty-nine,” the doctor laughed. “Now push, warrior—your ‘tumor’ wants out!”

When the baby arrived, the daughters-in-law burst into giggles: “He’s Grandpa’s twin!” Andrés, red-faced, muttered, “Well… I guess the gym’s been doing something after all.”

Meanwhile, in the waiting room, little Lucía was quietly sketching a family tree—now with a few extra branches.