The feeling of being trapped in a nightmare didn't pass, not even as the days went by. Since the appointment at the clinic, Patricia had lost her appetite, her sleep, and her peace. She tried to act normally at work, answering emails, attending meetings, pretending everything was fine. But inside, she was falling apart.
Every time she placed her hand on her still-imperceptible belly, she felt a mix of fear and anger. This shouldn't be happening. She hadn't chosen to be pregnant — and certainly not like this.
She still didn't have the courage to tell her family. Or her friends. But she knew she couldn't hide it for long. And, above all, she knew she needed to tell Rafael.
It was a cold night when she made the decision. He was in the living room, watching some news program, with his phone in his hand and his feet on the coffee table. They had been silent for days, exchanging words only about the essentials.
"Rafael, we need to talk."
He looked up, as if he knew he was about to hear something unpleasant.
"Did something happen?"
She sat next to him on the sofa, but kept a certain distance. The words came with difficulty.
"I... went to the doctor. Remember that exam I had at Vitta+?"
"I remember. Why?"
She took a deep breath, her heart racing.
"I found out I'm pregnant."
The silence that followed was deafening. Rafael's eyes widened, as if he had heard something completely absurd.
"What do you mean?"
"That's right. I'm pregnant."
"Pregnant by whom, Patricia?"
The question came like a slap. Cold, direct, cruel.
"What do you mean 'by whom'?" she retorted, hurt. "I've been with you for three years."
"And we always use protection," he retorted, sitting up straighter. "You yourself have always been paranoid about it. And now, out of the blue, you come and tell me you're pregnant? It doesn't make sense."
She felt her stomach churn. She expected resistance, but not so much coldness.
"Rafael... there was a mistake at the clinic. They did a procedure I didn't authorize. They're still investigating, but it seems... there was a mix-up with the records. I may have been... inseminated."
"Inseminated?" He laughed, incredulous. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? Are you trying to convince me that you got pregnant unintentionally... because of the clinic?"
"That's not what I'm trying to say," she insisted, feeling tears burning behind her eyes. "I can't explain it yet. I just know I didn't cheat on you. Ever. And I'm as lost as you are."
Rafael stood up, running his hands through his hair.
"This is absurd, Patricia. Unbelievable. It sounds like a flimsy excuse."
"Do you think I would make this up?" she asked, raising her voice for the first time. "What would I make up a pregnancy for? To trap you? I didn't even know this was possible until the doctor told me!"
"Or you're hiding who the real father is," he snapped, bitterly. "Maybe it was someone from work. Some affair. And now you want to blame it on a convenient medical error."
Patricia stood up slowly, feeling her legs wobble.
"I loved you. Even when you distanced yourself. Even when everything between us cooled down. I stayed here, by your side. And the first moment I need you most... all I get is this?"
"I'm not an idiot, Patricia," he replied, heading towards the door. "If you want to continue with this story, fine. But don't expect me here when you come back."
"Rafael..."
He already had his backpack on his back, the key in his hand.
"If you want to look for me again, let it be with a paternity test."
The door slammed shut. Patricia stood in the middle of the room, the silence now absolute. The tears came like a flood, heavy, desperate. She fell to her knees on the rug, hugging her own body, while sobbing in pain.
The night passed slowly, long and cruel.
Alone, in the dark, Patricia understood that from then on she could no longer count on anyone. She was on her own. With a baby on the way. A baby who was not to blame for anything, but who came into the world in the midst of a nameless confusion, the result of an unthinkable mistake.
The silence of the house seemed to mock her. Everything there reminded her of Rafael — the coffee mugs in the kitchen, the jacket hanging on the living room chair, the books he never finished stacked in the corner of the room. Patricia wanted to scream, run, tear every piece of that routine that now seemed like a disguise for an empty life.
She spent the night awake, sitting on the living room floor with her knees bent to her chest. She thought about calling her mother, her best friend, even her own doctor. But she couldn't. She didn't want to be looked at with pity or suspicion. And, above all, she didn't want to repeat that sentence out loud:
"I'm pregnant with a child I don't know who the father is."
The next day, she went to Clinica Vitta+. She entered determined, head held high, but her heart pounding.
"I need to speak with the administrative manager," she said to the receptionist, firmly.
"Madam, the clinic is investigating the case. You have already been informed that you will be contacted..."
"And I'm not going to wait idly by while my life turns into a nightmare. I want answers. Now."
The receptionist hesitated, picked up the phone, and muttered something. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman appeared, wearing an elegant suit and a trained smile.
"Patricia Navarre, isn't it? Can you come with me?"
She was taken to a private room, cold and decorated with modern paintings that didn't match the tension of the environment.
"Before anything else, we want to apologize. What happened was a serious mistake, and we are already conducting an internal investigation with the fertility sector..."
"I don't want apologies," Patricia interrupted, her voice choked. "I want to know who this baby's father is. And how this was possible. How was I... inseminated... without consent?"
The woman sighed, crossing her hands on the table.
"What we know so far is that there was a mix-up of records. You were confused with another patient with a similar name. That patient had signed the embryo implantation protocol. When your name was called, the system registered the permission as valid."
"But I signed for a routine exam! I didn't want to get pregnant!"
"We know that. And we are about to complete the genetic screening to identify the biological material used."
"And how long will that take?"
"Two to three business days."
Patricia felt a shiver run down her spine. Two or three days seemed like an eternity. She nodded her head and stood up. Before leaving, she still heard the woman say, almost as a warning:
"I can guarantee that you will be contacted soon. Perhaps not just by us."
That last sentence kept hammering in her mind.
Two days later, Patricia was returning from the market with a bag of bread when she noticed that there was a woman waiting for her at the entrance of the building. Blonde, tall, dressed in a black overcoat, high heels, and sunglasses even though the sky was cloudy.
"Patricia Navarre?" she asked with a polite smile.
"Who are you?"
"Can I talk to you for two minutes? It's about... the pregnancy."
Patricia's heart almost stopped. She looked around, as if expecting it to be a trap.
"How do you know?"
The woman took off her glasses. Her eyes were cold, like glass.
"I know. Because you carry something that belongs to someone very important. And I came to give you some advice."
"Advice?"
"Don't look for more answers. Don't go after who the father is. Don't talk to the press, or to lawyers. Have the baby, take care of it... and disappear. If you do that, you will be generously rewarded. You will have financial support, protection, everything you need. As long as... you never tell anyone what happened."
Patricia felt her stomach turn. Everything seemed too surreal. That woman spoke with the calmness of someone who is used to controlling lives. She didn't mention names. She didn't say where she came from. But there was something in her posture that screamed: power.
"Who sent you?"
"It doesn't matter. Just accept our proposal. It's the best for everyone. Including you and the child."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's an agreement. The choice is yours."
The woman placed a thin envelope in Patricia's hands and turned around without waiting for an answer. She got into a black car with dark windows that disappeared into traffic.
Patricia went up to the apartment trembling. The envelope had only a card with a phone number, a bank account, and the first transfer already made: fifty thousand reais.
She stood there, in front of the window, with the envelope in her hands and the city outside spinning like a world to which she no longer belonged.
Now she knew: there were more people involved in this story. Powerful people. People willing to pay for her to disappear.
But Patricia Navarre was not a woman to bend.
She just needed time.
And strength.
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