There were no tearful farewells. I received neither a warm embrace from my mother nor a kind word from my father. Instead, I was given a small bundle containing two old dresses and a wooden comb. And then I saw him.
Marco, the man from the mountain, arrived on time.
He was taller than I had imagined, with broad shoulders resembling an oak tree and large, calloused hands that appeared capable of splitting a log in two. His dark hair was long and somewhat tangled, while a thick beard covered half of his face. Yet, beneath all that, the deep sadness in his gray eyes was unmistakable, reminiscent of the sky just before a storm.
He did not smile. Instead, with a curt nod toward my father, Ricardo, he performed a motion that was almost businesslike in nature. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on me. He neither judged me nor offered solace. It was an empty look, characteristic of a man who had made peace with solitude and expected nothing from life anymore.
Our journey to the mountain was marked by a heavy silence, interrupted only by the crunch of our boots on the fallen leaves and the sound of my own breathing, which became labored from exertion. Marco strode ahead with a confident and swift pace, carrying my small bundle as if it weighed nothing at all. I followed, stumbling over roots and stones on the increasingly steep path.
My lungs, accustomed to the stale air of the village, burned. But as we ascended, the air grew fresh and invigorating. It smelled of pine, damp earth, and freedom. For the first time in many years, I inhaled deeply and felt the iron knot in my chest begin to loosen, even if just a little.
The village of Alborada receded behind us, a blur of brown rooftops at the valley’s base. Along with it, I left behind the condemnatory gazes, poisonous whispers, and the label of ‘sterile’ that had been hung around my neck like a noose.
Marco’s cabin nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering trees that appeared to touch the sky. It was constructed from dark, sturdy logs, complete with a small stone chimney that emitted no smoke. The place was remote, cut off from the world, yet oddly peaceful.
This is your home now, Marco stated. His voice was deep and rough, suggesting he was not accustomed to using it. These were the first words he spoke to me since leaving the village.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter first. The interior was simple and austere. A large wooden table sat in the center, flanked by two chairs, a blackened fireplace, and a cooking area lined with hanging iron pots. There was a closed door that I surmised led to his bedroom. The air smelled of wood, cold smoke, and ancient loneliness.
That’s your room, Marco said, pointing to a small cot in one corner of the main room, covered with a thick bear hide. I sleep inside.
He paused, and his gray gaze met mine. I won’t disturb you. There is food in the pantry. The rules are straightforward. Help with the chores. Don’t wander away from the cabin without informing me. And don’t expect me to engage in conversations I don’t wish to have.
He removed a leather bag from his shoulder and placed it on the table. Turning to look at me, for the first time, his eyes seemed to focus on me, seeing me for who I was.
I know why you’re here, he said, his tone devoid of emotion, and you know why I accepted you. Let’s not pretend this is anything else. I needed someone to fill the silence, and your family needed to get rid of you. We are two strangers sharing a roof. That’s all.
With that, he turned, entered his room, and shut the door.
I stood in the middle of the room, the echo of his words lingering in the air. The bluntness of his speech stung, yet strangely, it also liberated me. There were no false hopes. No expectations I couldn’t meet. Here in this cabin, I was not Isabela the “sterile.” I was simply a woman. A stranger.
And for some inexplicable reason, that felt like a relief.
That first night stretched longer than any I had ever known. I lay on the cot, wrapped in the heavy, warm bear hide, listening to the sounds of the mountain. The hooting of an owl, the whispering wind through the pines, and the occasional creaking of the cabin’s wood were my companions. I heard no sounds from Marco’s room. It felt as though a ghost inhabited the space on the other side of the door.
At dawn, as a pale gray light seeped through the lone window, I rose. The mountain’s chill seeped into my bones. Marco was already awake, seated at the table, sharpening a long, curved knife with a stone. The rhythmic sound, _ras-ras-ras_, was the only thing breaking the silence.
He didn’t greet me. Instead, he simply nodded toward the fireplace, where a pot of water began to steam. I understood. I prepared coffee, sliced some bread and cheese I found in the pantry, and set it on the table.
We ate in silence. This silence was different from that of my parents’ home, which was always laden with unspoken reproaches and tension. This silence was neutral. Heavy, yes, but not aggressive. It was the silence of the mountain, of two souls who had given up on expecting anything from life.
The first day passed in similar fashion. I cleaned the cabin and organized the pantry. I discovered a small garden behind the house, overgrown but full of potential. Kneeling in the earth, I began pulling weeds, feeling the damp soil between my fingers. It was the first time I felt useful in years.
Marco disappeared for hours at a time. I assumed he was hunting or checking traps. He returned at dusk with two rabbits hanging from his belt. I felt a twinge of fear; I had never prepared an animal before.
He seemed to notice my trepidation. I’ll show you, he said simply.
He taught me, using gestures and very few words, how to skin them and prepare them for dinner. His large, calloused hands moved with surprising skill, a dexterity that contradicted his rough exterior. Once, as he passed the knife to me, his fingers brushed against mine.
It was like an electric shock. A surge of unexpected energy coursed through my arm. He withdrew his hand quickly, as if burned, and a strange shadow crossed his face. It was a fleeting moment, yet we both felt it.
That night was when everything began to shift.
While we prepared the stew, my gaze fell upon a small, intricately carved wooden box set on a high shelf, nearly hidden by dust and shadows. It featured a detailed design of flowers and birds. Curiosity got the better of me.
I climbed onto one of the chairs to reach it.
“Don’t touch that!”
Marco’s voice thundered behind me. The fright caused me to lose my balance. The chair wobbled, and I fell backward, letting out a muffled gasp.
But I didn’t hit the ground. Two strong arms like steel wrapped around my waist at the last moment, pulling me firmly against a hard, muscular chest.
I gasped for breath. My back pressed against him. I could feel the warmth of his body through my simple dress, the steady thrum of his heart against my shoulder blade. His beard brushed against my cheek; it was coarse, yet strangely comforting. The scent of pine, leather, and man enveloped me. For an instant, I forgot where I was, who I was, the fear, everything.
I told you… not to touch it, he repeated, but his voice no longer sounded like thunder. It was softer now, almost a rough whisper in my ear.
His hands did not release me. On the contrary, I sensed his fingers tighten slightly around my waist, as if he feared I might vanish.
I turned my head slowly to look at him. Our faces were mere inches apart. And then I saw the torment in his gray eyes. A pain so deep and ancient that it made my heart tighten.
I’m sorry, I whispered. I just… I only saw the carved flowers…
He interrupted me, his gaze locked with mine, as if he were seeking something in my soul. “They were my wife’s. Elena.”
The confession hung in the air. Then, he abruptly released me, stepping back as though my physical proximity pained him. He ran a hand through his hair, agitated.
She… she liked these things. Small boxes, dried flowers. Nonsense.
“They’re not nonsense,” I said softly, my voice surprising me with its firmness. I stepped down from the chair and turned to face him. “They’re memories.”
He looked at me, surprised by my boldness. But he did not grow angry. He nodded slowly, as if accepting a painful truth. He sat at the table, covering his face with his large hands.
“Today… today would have been her birthday,” he said, his voice broken.
For the first time since I had met him, he appeared vulnerable. He was no longer the wild man of the mountain but a man crushed by the weight of his past.
I hesitated for just a second. Then I stepped forward and, without thinking, placed a hand on his shoulder. He tensed at first, like a wounded animal bracing for a blow. But then, to my surprise, he did not pull away. He relaxed under my touch.
That night, he spoke more than he had in the entire time I’d been there. He told me about Elena. How her laughter used to fill the cabin. How they had planned to have three children and fill the clearing with life.
He recounted the birth. How a complication took her away along with the baby, a boy they intended to name Mateo. He spoke with a broken voice, shedding his armor of toughness.
And I listened. Not as the woman who had been sold. Not as the “sterile.” I heard him as someone who, for different reasons, also understood the pain of an unfillable void.
That night, the invisible wall separating us not only cracked. It fell down.
The next day, something fundamental had shifted. Marco remained a man of few words, but his silences were no longer hostile. They were now filled with an awareness of each other.
As we gathered firewood, I could feel his gaze upon me. I noticed how he watched the wind play with the loose strands of my brown hair or how my cheeks flushed with exertion.
For my part, I found myself admiring the strength of his arms as he split a log, the way his gray eyes brightened, almost silver, when he looked at the mountaintops.
The physical attraction, which had been a spark the day before, now simmered slowly between us. It was a palpable, almost electric tension in the cool mountain air.
On the third day, a gentle rain began to fall, drumming on the cabin’s roof and creating an intimate ambiance that further isolated us from the world.
We sat in front of the fire, the stew bubbling in the fireplace. The warmth of the flames painted our faces in shades of orange and gold. Neither of us spoke, but our glances met and held for longer than necessary.
“Isabela,” he finally said. The sound of my name in his deep voice sent a shiver running from my head to my toes.
I looked at him, my heart pounding with a force that felt like it might burst from my chest.
He rose from his chair and came closer to me. He did not sit. Instead, he knelt before the chair where I sat, a gesture of submission that took my breath away. He took my hands in his. His palms were rough from labor, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.
<p“I’m not a good man for you, Isabela,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m broken. My heart is filled with ghosts. You should be afraid of me.”
I swallowed hard, finding my own voice. “I’m broken too, Marco,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. “Everyone in the village thinks I’m worthless. That I’m barren land, a desert.”
He lifted one of his hands and caressed my cheek with the back of his calloused fingers. His gaze was intense, burning.
“I don’t see barren land,” he said, his voice lowering, becoming deep and sensual. “I see a beautiful, strong woman, with eyes that hide more stories than they tell. I see lips… lips that have been begging me to kiss them since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
My heart flipped. No one. Ever. Had said such a thing to me. No one had ever looked at me like that, as if I were the most desirable woman in the world.
<p“And what’s stopping you?” I dared to ask, my own voice laden with a yearning I didn’t know I possessed.
<p“Fear,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “The fear of feeling something again. The fear of destroying the only good thing that’s entered this cabin in years.”
I leaned toward him, closing the little distance that remained between us. “Sometimes, to heal a wound,” I whispered against his lips, “you have to risk opening it a little.”
It was all he needed.
The control he had held so tightly shattered into a thousand pieces. His mouth met mine in a kiss that was neither tender nor delicate. It was a desperate, hungry kiss, filled with years of loneliness, repressed pain, and an overwhelming need.
He lifted me into his arms, carrying me from the chair as if I weighed nothing, kissing me all the while, toward his room. The door that had always been closed.
The room was as bare as the rest of the house, dominated by a large bed with a solid wooden frame. He laid me onto the fur blankets and hovered over me, his large, powerful body enveloping mine.
I felt no fear. For the first time in my life, I felt desired. Adored.
He stripped me of my simple dress with a reverent urgency. His hands explored every curve of my body as if he were discovering sacred ground. His lips traced the path of his hands, leaving a trail of fire on my skin.
You are so beautiful, he murmured against my neck, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. Tell me you love me, Isabela. Tell me you want this as much as I do.
I want you, Marco, I replied, my voice trembling with emotion and desire. I want you here. I want you.
There was no awkwardness in our union. Only a deep, raw, instinctual connection. It was as if our bodies and souls had been waiting for each other. Two broken halves finally finding a way to fit together.
It was a total surrender, an explosion of sensations and feelings that left us both breathless, holding onto each other in the darkness of the cabin as the rain continued to sing its lullaby on the roof.
We made love over and over that night. With a passion that healed, that erased the scars of the past and the cruel labels of the world. He whispered things in my ear, daring and tender words that made me blush and desire him even more. He told me how soft my skin was, how sweet my taste was, how incredible it felt to be inside me, how every part of him claimed me as his own.
And I, in return, lost all my inhibitions. I responded to his passion with my own, discovering a side of myself I never knew existed. I was a sensual, vibrant woman capable of giving and receiving immense pleasure.
In the arms of that rugged mountain man, I, Isabela the “sterile,” felt for the first time incredibly alive. And whole.
As we drifted off to sleep, embraced with our legs intertwined, I rested my head on Marco’s broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. The quiet of the cabin was no longer a silence of solitude. It was now a silence filled with promises. Filled with peace.
In just three days, my life had transformed in ways I never could have imagined. I had arrived at the mountain as a mere object of exchange, a burden from which my family wanted to be free. But now, I felt like I had finally found my home.
I didn’t know what the future held for us. However, as I lay safely and lovingly in Marco’s arms, I felt a strange and distant vibration deep within me. A whisper of life. A hope that defied all logic and all judgment.
It was too soon to know, too incredible to believe. But at that moment, I was certain something miraculous had occurred. The seed of love that had just begun to blossom between us had already taken root in a deeper and more literal way than either of us could suspect.
The weeks turned into a month, and then into two. Life in the mountain took on a rhythm of its own, a peaceful routine that was a balm for my soul.
Mornings began with the warmth of Marco’s body beside me, his arms possessively wrapped around me, even in sleep. We made love with the first light of day, in a slow, tender manner that affirmed our place in each other’s worlds. Then we prepared breakfast together, moving through the small kitchen in a synchronized dance, our bodies brushing against one another, sharing stolen kisses that tasted of coffee and promises.
Marco taught me the secrets of the mountain. To identify deer tracks, to distinguish edible mushrooms from poisonous ones, to read the sky to predict the weather. Together we worked in the garden, which under my care had transformed into a mosaic of vibrant greens, promising tomatoes, peppers, and squash.
I discovered a strength within myself that I never knew I possessed. My hands grew stronger, my skin bronzed from the sun, and my lungs filled with the purest air I had ever breathed.
But the most significant changes were not external. They were happening within me.
The first sign was subtle. A persistent fatigue that forced me to take afternoon naps, something I had never done before. Then came the morning sickness. At first, I attributed it to something I had eaten, but when the smell of the rabbit stew, which I now loved, made me rush outside the cabin, an incredible, almost terrifying suspicion began to form in my mind.
I tried to ignore it. To convince myself it was impossible. All my life, I had been told that my body was defective. The word “sterile” was engraved in my identity so deeply that I could not conceive of another reality.
Marco noticed my pallor and lack of appetite.
“Are you well, my love?” he would ask, his voice gruff with concern, as he brushed the back of his hand across my forehead to check for fever. “You look pale.”
“It’s just fatigue,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Working in the garden is harder than it looks.”
But the suspicion grew, becoming a mix of fear and a fragile hope that I was terrified would shatter the moment I breathed it.
The day my suspicions transformed into an overwhelming certainty was on a sunny afternoon. I had gone to wash clothes at the nearby stream, and as I bent down, a sudden dizziness hit me. I had to sit on a rock, breathing deeply. I placed a hand on my belly. And it was then that I felt it.
It wasn’t a movement, not yet. It was a sensation of fullness. A deep connection, a energy that felt unlike anything before. My entire being seemed to scream the truth my mind refused to accept.
I was pregnant.
Tears streamed from my eyes. Tears that were neither of sadness nor fear, but of a joy so immense and pure that it felt like my heart was about to burst. I was pregnant! Me, Isabela the sterile!
The whole world had been wrong. My family, doctor Morales, the entire village… they were all wrong.
Laughter mixed with my tears, a sound that rose from the depths of my soul. A sound of pure liberation. A child. A child of Marco. A fruit of our love that had sprouted in the most unexpected place, far from judgment and disdain.
I waited for Marco to return that night after checking his traps. I prepared his favorite dinner, a venison stew with herbs, and lit a candle I had made from beeswax, filling the cabin with a soft, warm glow.
Marco entered, weary but wearing the small smile that always appeared when he saw me. He stopped in the doorway, surprised by the atmosphere.
“What are we celebrating?” he asked, approaching me and giving me a deep kiss that tasted of forest and smoke.
I took his large, calloused hands and placed them on my belly. Marco furrowed his brow, confused.
“Marco,” I began, my voice trembling. “I think… I think I’m not as broken as everyone thought.”
He looked at me at first without comprehension. Then, his gray eyes widened, an expression of awe and absolute disbelief dawning on his face. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my belly, where his own hands rested.
“Isabela,” he whispered, “are you telling me…?”
I nodded, tears of joy streaming down my cheeks. “We’re having a baby, Marco. A baby of ours.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. He remained frozen, staring at my belly as if witnessing a miracle. Fear washed over me. What if he didn’t want it? He had told me he didn’t want to go through that again, that the pain of losing Elena and Mateo was too great.
But then I saw a solitary tear roll down Marco’s cheek, disappearing into his thick beard.
He fell to his knees before me. Resting his forehead on my belly, he shook with silent, heartbreaking sobs.
A baby, he repeated, his voice breaking. Elena… she… we tried for so long…
I knelt beside him, embracing him, stroking his hair. I realized his tears were not of sadness but of overwhelming shock. Of healing a wound he thought would never close.
After a while, he lifted his head. His gray eyes sparkled with a light I had never seen before. A light of pure, unaltered happiness.
This… this is… you, Isabela. You are my miracle, he said, taking my face in his hands and kissing me with a tenderness that made me melt. A child. Our child.
That night we didn’t talk much more. We lay in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, with Marco’s hand protectively resting on my belly throughout the night. I felt him tremble from time to time, overwhelmed with emotion. The man who had shut himself away from pain was now being reborn alongside the new life growing within the woman he loved.
However, the pure joy of our private miracle could not remain isolated in the mountains forever.
A few weeks later, as my pregnancy became more evident, we ran out of salt and flour. It was inevitable. One of us would have to go down to the village.
I will go, Marco said firmly. You will not move from here. I don’t want anyone bothering you, looking at you oddly.
But I shook my head. No, Marco. I’m not hiding. I’m not ashamed. I want everyone to see it. I want my family to see it. A new strength fueled my voice, a confidence born from Marco’s love and the life within me. We will go together.
Marco hesitated, his protective instinct clashing with the determination in my eyes. Finally, he relented. He knew I was right. This was something we had to face together.
The morning we went down to the village, the air was crisp, and the sun shone brightly. I wore a simple dress that could no longer conceal the gentle curve of my belly. Marco walked beside me, his hand never leaving the small of my back. His imposing presence served as a shield against the world.
The first person to see us was the blacksmith’s wife, who dropped her basket of vegetables, mouth agape.
Then the murmurs began. They spread through the cobbled streets like wildfire.
“It’s Isabela. The daughter of the Ramos.” “Look at her belly! She’s pregnant!” “But she’s sterile… Doctor Morales said…”
The windows flew open, doors cracked ajar. The village of Alborada stood still, witnessing the impossible.
I held my head high, my hand resting on my belly, ignoring the whispers and the shocked stares. I felt invincible with Marco at my side.
We headed straight to my parents’ house. It was Catalina who opened the door. Her face went from confusion to pure disbelief and then to a venomous expression of envy as her eyes locked onto my burgeoning belly.
“What kind of witchcraft is this?” she hissed.
Ricardo and Elodia, my father and mother, appeared behind her, their faces pale with shock. My mother was the first to speak, her voice trembling with disbelief and strange fury.
“What does this mean, Isabela? Have you dishonored this man? Whose child is that?”
“It’s mine.” Marco’s voice boomed, deep and threatening. He stepped forward, placing me slightly behind him. “It’s our child. And I’ve come to tell you not to ever approach my wife again. You treated her like trash, but it turns out the only rotten soil here is in your hearts. She bloomed the moment I took her away from you.”
Elodia’s face contorted into a mask of rage and humiliation. “You lie! It’s impossible! The doctor said she was sterile!”
“Well, it seems your doctor is a fool.” My own voice rang clear and firm. I looked directly into my mother’s eyes. “Or perhaps the problem was never me. The problem was this place. The problem was disdain and sadness. In the mountains, I found peace, and in this man’s arms, I found love. And love, mother, can sometimes perform miracles.”
Without saying another word, I turned around. Marco cast one last warning glance before following me.
As we walked away from the house, leaving my family gaping and humiliated at the door, I felt the final chain binding me to my painful past snap. I was no longer the despised daughter, the defective woman. I was Isabela, Marco’s wife, the future mother of his child. I was a loved woman and for the first time in my life, I was free.
But I knew this was not the end. It was merely the beginning. The news of my miraculous pregnancy would shake the village of Alborada to its core, awakening envy, resentment, and perhaps old secrets that some would prefer to keep buried. And my family, publicly humiliated, would not sit idle.
The battle for our happiness and our child had only just begun.
At my parents’ house, the shock transformed into furious humiliation.
“How dare she?” my mother, Elodia, hissed, pacing back and forth. “Rubbing her… her _fertility_ in our faces as if it were a trophy! And that savage, speaking to us like we’re scum!”
“Don’t worry, mother,” Catalina’s laughter was bitter and cruel. “No one will believe it. Everyone knows she’s sterile. It’s clear what happened. That whore must have rolled around with someone else, probably some hunter. Her husband is so stupid and desperate that he’s swallowed the story that the bastard is his.”
The idea, so vile, took root in Elodia’s mind. It was the only explanation that salvaged her pride. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “She’s tarnished our name with a bastard. We must show that mountain man what kind of serpent he has in his bed.”
The next day, Catalina went to the market to spread the poison. “Poor Marco,” she said, pretending to grieve an emotion she didn’t feel. “He’s so lonely he’s fallen for the lie. But we know the truth. Isabela has always been weak-willed…”
The tale was juicy and far more believable than any miracle. It spread like a virus.
It was Ana, the village herbalist, who warned us. Ana had always cared for me and had never believed in doctor Morales’s verdict. She climbed the long path to the cabin with teas for nausea.
“Children, you must be careful,” she told us gravely after sharing the rumors.
Marco jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. “I’m going down right now and I’ll tear that sister of yours’ tongue out!” he growled.
<p“No, Marco!” I exclaimed, stepping in front of him. “Violence will solve nothing. Our honor isn’t in their dirty mouths. It’s here, between us. As long as we know the truth, what they say is just noise.”
Ana nodded, impressed. “You’re right. But a lie repeated often can become dangerous.”
Her words would prove prophetic. The humiliation was not enough for my mother. A week later, she and Catalina climbed the mountain.
“Isabela, my daughter,” Elodia began, her voice laced with false sweetness that churned my stomach. “I’ve come to beg you to forgive us. Come home. A pregnancy needs care, a mother’s counsel.”
“My wife is safer here than anywhere else in the world,” Marco replied, his body a barrier.
<p“Daughter, think about it,” my mother pressed. “Come home until the child is born. We will make everyone believe you’ve forgiven your husband his mistake, that you’ve decided to take care of another’s baby. It can be arranged.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The audacity. The cruelty.
“My husband made no mistake,” I said, my voice sharp as ice. “And this baby is as much his as it is mine. It is the fruit of our love. Now, get out of my house. You are not my family. My only family is this man and the child I carry inside.”
The expression on my mother’s face transformed. “You will regret this, insolent child,” she hissed. “When that savage grows tired of you and leaves you with your bastard, don’t come crying to my door.”
They left, leaving a trail of malice behind. I collapsed onto the bench, trembling with rage. Marco held me tightly.
But the visit had planted a seed of unease within me. One night, I woke with a sharp pain in my belly. I screamed, terrified. Marco woke instantly, panic etched on his face.
“Marco, it hurts!” I sobbed. The pain was intense.
“Calm down, breathe. I’ll take you to the village. To the doctor.”
“No!” I gasped. “Not Morales. I won’t trust him. He’ll say anything to prove he was right. Ana told me about a new doctor… in the neighboring village, in Vista Hermosa. They say he’s young, that he studied in the city.”
The pain eased, but the fear was real.
“Alright,” Marco said firmly. “We’ll go see that new doctor. We won’t take any risks.”
Meanwhile, in the village, my father, Ricardo, drowning in debt and shame, made a fatal error. He went to Ramiro, the moneylender.
“So your useless daughter has suddenly become a miracle,” Ramiro said, rubbing his hands together. “That’s interesting. Miracles are worth a lot of money. Some rich clients of mine in the city, a couple who can’t have children, will pay anything for a baby like that. It’ll be your salvation, Ricardo.”
“You want me to kidnap my own grandchild?” my father paled.
I don’t want you to do anything, Ramiro hissed. “You will do it, or your other daughter and your wife will end up on the street, and you at the bottom of the river. I need you to get that mountain man out of the cabin on the night of the next full moon. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Trapped and terrified, my father agreed.
Meanwhile, doctor Morales, sensing his reputation threatened, published an article in the local newspaper about the dangers of “female hysteria” and “false pregnancies.” He didn’t name me, but everyone knew who he was referring to. He was giving a veneer of medical credibility to my sister’s rumors.
“Enough!” Marco said when Ana brought us the newspaper. “It’s time to stop hiding. Tomorrow, we’re going to Vista Hermosa. We’ll get a test that will silence them all.”
The trip to Vista Hermosa was tense. Dr. Gabriel Herrera was a young man, with a kind smile and intelligent eyes that looked at me with respect.
“Madam,” he said, after hearing my story, “sometimes the body and the soul are so connected that injuries in one can affect the other. Chronic stress, sadness… all of that can impact a woman. It’s not hysteria; it’s science. And sometimes, all the body needs to heal is peace, security, and love.”
He examined me. And then, a wide smile lit up his face. “Alright, Marco, hold on,” he said. He placed a special stethoscope in Marco’s ears and then pressed the other end against my belly.
Marco’s face transformed. Disbelief, astonishment, and pure joy hit him like a wave. Tears pooled in his gray eyes as he heard, for the first time, the rapid and strong heartbeat of our child.
He took off the stethoscope, unable to speak, and knelt beside me, reverently kissing my belly.
“Congratulations,” said Dr. Herrera, moved. “You have a very healthy and strong baby in there. And you, Mrs. Isabela, are perfectly healthy. There is absolutely nothing sterile about you. There never was.”
He gave us a written and sealed report.
Armed with that letter, we returned to Alborada on market day. We headed straight to doctor Morales, who was holding court in the square.
“Doctor Morales!” Marco’s voice, cold and hard, sliced through the air.
I stepped forward and unfolded the letter. “This is a report from Dr. Gabriel Herrera of Vista Hermosa,” I said with a strong voice. “It states that I am perfectly healthy and that my pregnancy is completely normal. Perhaps next time, doctor, before declaring a woman infertile based on your ignorance, you should update your knowledge.”
I read aloud the key parts. A murmur of astonishment rippled through the crowd. Eyes turned accusatorily toward Morales. My mother and Catalina, who were nearby, paled, exposed as liars.
It was a resounding victory. But it also served as the final detonator.
The full moon night came a week later. Just as the sun set, a boy from the village came running to the cabin.
<p“Sir Marco!” he shouted. “It’s Ricardo, your wife’s father! He has fallen into a ravine near the river! He’s badly injured and asking for you.”
Marco looked at me. His instincts screamed that it was a trap. But I, despite everything, was worried. “You have to go, Marco. What if it’s true?”
He kissed me. “I don’t like this. Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone. Ana is on her way to stay the night with you. I won’t be long.”
He ran off. As soon as he disappeared, Ana arrived. And almost at the same time, I felt the first sharp pain. I was in labor.
One hour later, as I writhed in agony, the door of the cabin was kicked down.
Two burly men with their faces covered entered. Ana, brave, confronted them with a fire poker from the fireplace but was brutally knocked down.
I screamed, a mixture of pain, fear, and the panic of labor that was escalating due to terror.
I saw a third man in the doorway, in the shadows. It was my father. The look of terror and regret in his eyes was the last thing I saw before a contraction consumed me.
The delivery was swift and brutal, on the floor of the cabin, with Ana trying to help me as the men waited with monstrous impatience.
As soon as the baby came out, crying loudly, one of the men wrapped it in a blanket and snatched it from my arms.
“NO! MY CHILD!”
My scream was a tear in my soul, a sound of pure agony. I watched as my father froze, witnessing the horror he had unleashed, before the men bolted away into the night.
When Marco returned, having found no one at the ravine, he discovered the broken door.
The scene shattered him. Ana was injured, and I lay on the floor, pale, bleeding and weeping silently, my empty arms outstretched toward the door.
“They took him, Marco,” I whispered, my voice broken. “They took our baby. Your father… your father was with them.”
A volcanic fury erupted within Marco. But his first instinct was me. He lifted me with infinite tenderness, cleaned me up, and laid me on the bed, stopping the bleeding with Ana’s teachings.
“I’m going to bring our child back,” he said. His voice was the terrifying calm in the eye of the storm. “Even if I have to walk over the corpses of all the men in that village.”
He left Ana to care for me and took his largest knife and axe. He followed the trail not as a man, but as a predator. The careless footprints, the scent of fear. His senses sharpened by the mountain were heightened by fury.
The trail led him to an old abandoned cabin, Ramiro’s hideout.
He arrived like a ghost. He took down the two exterior guards with brutal and silent efficiency.
Inside, he found Ramiro trying to soothe the crying baby. And beside him, tied to a chair, was my father, beaten and bleeding. In a last moment of conscience, he had refused to deliver the child and tried to fight.
Upon seeing Marco in the doorway, blood from his men on the knife, Ramiro paled and attempted to use the baby as a shield. “One more step and I’ll kill him!”
But Marco was no longer a man negotiating. He was a force of nature. “That’s my son,” he growled.
He moved. It was a blur of controlled violence. He disarmed Ramiro by breaking his wrist and knocked him out with a single devastating punch.
Then, with trembling hands, he took his child.
The baby, sensing the familiar smell and warmth, stopped crying and opened his tiny eyes. They were his father’s gray eyes.
Hello, little lion, Marco whispered, tears finally streaming down his face. Dad is here.
He untied my father, who crumpled at his feet, sobbing. “Kill me. I deserve it.”
“Get up,” Marco ordered. “You will live with what you’ve done. That is your sentence.”
Marco returned to the cabin with our child.
My reunion with my baby was a moment of beauty so intense that even the air seemed to hold its breath. We cried together, kissed, and caressed our little one. A family broken and then reunited by the strength of love.
We named him Leo. For his strength, for the brave roar with which he had entered the world, and for the lion that was his father.
My father confessed everything. Ramiro and his men were handed over to the city authorities. The scandal destroyed what remained of my mother, sister, and doctor Morales’s reputation. They became pariahs and ultimately had to leave the village, drowning in their own venom. My father also left, a broken man seeking his penance in solitude.
Years went by. Our story became legend. The cabin in the mountain was no longer the home of a hermit but a sanctuary of love.
Ana helped us raise Leo, a strong and happy boy with his father’s eyes and my smile. Two years later, a girl was born whom we named Ana, with my brown, curly hair.
The love that once healed two broken souls had multiplied, filling the cabin with laughter and life.
One afternoon, while we watched our two children play in the clearing, I snuggled against Marco.
“To think that it all began because they sold me as a broken thing,” I whispered.
Marco kissed my forehead. “You were never broken, my love,” he replied, his hand resting on my belly, where a third life was beginning to stir gently. “You were just waiting for someone to plant you in the right soil so you could bloom.”