In just three days, her life had changed in ways she could never have imagined. She had arrived on the mountain as a bargaining chip, a burden her family had discarded. But now she felt as if she had finally found home. She didn’t know what the future held, but as she lay safe and loved in Marco’s arms, she felt a strange little vibration deep within her, a whisper of life, a hope that defied all logic and judgment.

It was too soon to know, too incredible to believe. But in that moment, Isabela was certain that something miraculous had occurred. The seed of love that had just blossomed between them had already taken root in a way far deeper and more literal than either of them could have imagined. The mountain man, who had only sought a companion for his loneliness, and the woman who had been called infertile. They had just embarked on a journey that would shake the foundations of their lives and of the entire village that had scorned her.

Because nature has its own rules, and love is sometimes the most powerful and fertile of them all. Weeks turned into a month, and then two. Life in the mountains acquired its own rhythm, a peaceful routine that was a balm for Isabela’s soul. Mornings began with the warmth of Marco’s body beside her, his arms encircling her possessively, even in her dreams. They made love with the first light of day, slowly and tenderly, an affirmation of their place in each other’s world, very different from the desperate passion of their first night, but just as intense.

Then they would prepare breakfast together, moving around the small kitchen in a synchronized dance, their bodies brushing against each other, sharing stolen kisses that tasted of coffee and promises. Marco taught Isabela the secrets of the mountain. He taught her to identify animal tracks, to distinguish edible plants from poisonous ones, to read the sky to predict the weather. Together they worked in the garden, which under Isabela’s care had become a mosaic of vibrant greens, promising tomatoes, peppers, and pumpkins.

She discovered a strength within herself she never knew she possessed. Her hands grew stronger, her skin tanned in the sun, and her lungs filled with the purest air she had ever breathed. But the most significant changes weren’t external; they were happening within her. The first sign was subtle: a persistent tiredness that compelled her to take afternoon naps, something she had never done before. Then came the morning sickness.

At first, she attributed it to something she had eaten, but when the smell of rabbit stew, her favorite dish, made her run out of the cabin, an incredible, almost terrifying suspicion began to form in her mind. She tried to ignore it, to tell herself it was impossible. All her life she had been told her body was defective. The word “sterile” was so deeply ingrained in her identity that she couldn’t conceive of any other reality. Marco noticed her pallor and her lack of appetite.

“Are you alright, my love?” her voice was hoarse with worry as she stroked his forehead with the back of her hand to check for a fever. “You look pale. It’s just tiredness,” she lied, forcing a smile. Working in the garden is harder than it looks. But her suspicion grew, becoming a mixture of fear and a hope so fragile she feared it would shatter with the mere breath of it. The day her suspicions became an overwhelming certainty was a sunny afternoon.

She had gone to wash clothes at the nearby stream, and as she bent down, a sudden dizziness overwhelmed her. She had to sit down on a rock, breathing deeply. She placed a hand on her belly, and that’s when she felt it. It wasn’t a movement, not yet. It was a feeling of fullness, a profound connection, an energy that wasn’t her own. Her whole being seemed to cry out the truth her mind refused to accept. She was pregnant. Tears sprang to her eyes, tears not of sadness or fear, but of a joy so immense and pure that it felt as if her heart would burst.

She was pregnant. She, Isabela, the barren one. The whole world had been wrong. Her family, the doctor, the entire town, everyone was wrong. Laughter mingled with her tears, a sound that sprang from the depths of her soul. A sound of pure liberation. A child, Marco’s child, a fruit of their love born in the most unexpected place, far from judgment and scorn. She waited for Marco to return from checking his traps that night.

She prepared her favorite dinner, a venison stew with aromatic herbs, and lit a beeswax candle, filling the cabin with a soft, warm light. Marco entered, tired but with the small smile that always appeared on his lips when he saw her. He paused in the doorway, surprised by the atmosphere. “What are we celebrating?” he asked, approaching her and giving her a deep kiss. Isabela took his large, calloused hands and placed them on her belly. Marco frowned, confused.

“Marco,” she began, her voice trembling. “I think, I think I’m not as broken as everyone thought.” He looked at her, uncomprehending at first. Then his gray eyes widened, an expression of astonishment and utter disbelief spreading across his face. His gaze traveled from Isabela’s eyes to her stomach, where his own hands rested. Isabela whispered, her voice barely audible. “Are you telling me?” He nodded, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks once more.

We’re going to have a baby, Marco. Our baby. For a long moment, he said nothing. He remained motionless, staring at her belly as if witnessing a miracle. Fear gripped Isabela. And if he didn’t want it, he had told her he didn’t want to go through that again, that the pain of losing Elena and Mateo was too great. But then she saw a single tear roll down Marco’s cheek, disappearing into his thick beard.

He fell to his knees before her, resting his forehead on her belly, his shoulders shaking with silent, heart-wrenching sobs. “A baby,” his voice broke again. “Elena, we tried for so long.” Isabela knelt beside him, embracing him, stroking his hair. She understood that his tears weren’t from sadness, but from an overwhelming shock, from the healing of a wound she thought would never close. After a while, he lifted his head, his gray eyes shining with a light she had never seen before.

A light of pure, undisturbed happiness. This, this is you, Isabela. You are my miracle, he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her with a tenderness that made her melt. A child, our child. That night they didn’t speak much more. They lay in bed, embraced, Marco’s hand resting protectively on Isabela’s belly all night. She felt him tremble from time to time, overwhelmed with emotion. The man who had withdrawn into himself because of the pain of loss was now being reborn alongside the new life growing inside the woman he loved.

However, the pure joy of their private miracle couldn’t remain isolated on the mountain forever. A few weeks later, as Isabela’s pregnancy became more evident, they ran out of salt and flour. It was inevitable. One of them would have to go down to the village. “I’ll go,” Marco said firmly. “You’re not moving from here. I don’t want anyone bothering you, anyone giving you dirty looks.” But Isabela shook her head. “No, Marco, I’m not going to hide.”

I’m not ashamed. I want everyone to see it. I want my family to see it. There was a new strength in her voice, a confidence that Marco’s love and the life within her had given her. We’ll go together. Marco hesitated, his protective instinct fighting against the determination in her eyes. Finally, he nodded. He knew she was right. This was something they had to face together. The morning they went down to the village, the air was fresh and the sun was shining.

Isabela wore a simple dress that could no longer conceal the gentle curve of her belly. Marco walked beside her, his hand never leaving the small of her back. His imposing presence was a shield against the world. The first person to see them was the blacksmith’s wife, who dropped her basket of vegetables, her mouth agape. Then the murmur began. It spread through the cobblestone streets like wildfire. It’s Isabela, the daughter of the fronds.

Look at her belly. She’s pregnant. But she’s sterile. Windows opened, doors cracked open. The town of Alborada stood still, witnessing the impossible. Isabela held her head high, her hand on her belly, ignoring the whispers and gaping stares. She felt invincible with Marco by her side. They went straight to her parents’ house. It was Catalina who opened the door. Her face went from bewilderment to pure disbelief and then to an expression of poisonous envy when her eyes fell on Isabela’s swollen belly.

“What kind of witchcraft is this?” she hissed. Ricardo and Elodia appeared behind her, their faces pale with shock. Her mother was the first to speak, her voice trembling with disbelief and a strange anger. “What does this mean, Isabela? Have you dishonored this man? Whose child is that?” “He’s mine.” Marco’s voice boomed deep and menacing. He stepped forward, placing Isabela slightly behind him. “He’s our son. And I’ve come to tell you never to go near my wife again.”

They treated her like trash, but it turns out the only rotten soil here is in your hearts. She blossomed the moment I took her away from you. Elodia’s face contorted in a mask of fury and humiliation. You’re lying. It’s impossible. The doctor said she was sterile. Well, it seems your doctor is a fool. Or perhaps the problem was never her, Isabela said, her voice clear and firm. She looked directly into her mother’s eyes.

The problem was this place. The problem was the contempt and the sadness. In the mountains I found peace, and in this man’s arms I found love. And love, Mother, can sometimes work miracles. Without another word, she turned away. Marco gave them one last warning look before following her. As they walked away from the house, leaving her family speechless and humiliated at the door, Isabela felt the last chain binding her to her painful past break.

She was no longer the scorned daughter, the flawed woman. She was Isabela, Marco’s wife, the future mother of his child. She was a beloved woman, and for the first time in her life, she was free, but she knew this wasn’t the end, it was only the beginning. The news of her miraculous pregnancy would shake the town of Alborada to its core, stirring up envy, resentment, and perhaps old secrets that some would prefer to keep buried. And her family, publicly humiliated, would not stand idly by.

The battle for her happiness and that of her son had only just begun. The return to the mountain was much quieter than the descent. The tension of their encounter in the village still hung in the air between them. Marco walked with a frown, his hand still on Isabela’s back, but now his touch was possessive, an anchor in a world that suddenly felt hostile. His jaw was so clenched it seemed carved from granite.

Isabela, on the other hand, felt an eerie calm. The fear she had anticipated hadn’t arrived. Instead, there was a cold, hard resolve. She had seen her family’s true face, stripped of any pretense of affection, and instead of breaking her, it had strengthened her. She had severed the last invisible ties that bound her to them. When they reached the final path leading to the cabin, Marco stopped and turned to face her, cupping her face in his large hands.

His gray eyes were like two miniature storms, filled with a protective fury that shook her to her core. “Are you alright?” his voice asked, a restrained roar. “If you want me to go back there and smash their heads in, just tell me. Your father for being a coward, your mother for being a viper, and your sister for even breathing.” Isabela smiled, a genuine smile that seemed to surprise him. She placed her hands on top of his, which were still cradling her face.

I’m fine, Marco. Better than fine. For the first time, I’m free of them. I owe them nothing anymore, not even my sadness. The fury in his eyes softened, replaced by deep admiration. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered. “I want to lock you up here, where no one can ever hurt you again. And I want you to do it,” she replied in a knowing whisper, moving closer until their lips almost touched.

“But only if you lock me in with you.” The tension broke, replaced by a different kind, much more familiar and welcome. He kissed her right there in the middle of the path, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of ownership, of protection, and of an overwhelming desire. “You’re mine, Isabela,” he murmured against her lips. “You and this baby are my territory, and woe betide anyone who tries to set foot on it.” Words that might have seemed controlling to another woman sounded to her like the most beautiful of promises.

It was the promise of a warrior’s refuge by her side. She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his chest. “I will always be yours,” she said, with absolute certainty. That night, in the safety of the cabin, they made love with renewed intensity. It was an act of reaffirmation, a way of reclaiming their space and their happiness from the ugly world they had left behind in the valley. Marco adored her with his body, his hands, and his mouth, memorizing every curve, every moan, whispering in her ear how perfect she was, how incredibly fertile and full of life she was.

“Look at you,” he said as they became entangled in the sheets, his hand resting on the soft mound of her belly. “You gave me life before you gave it to our child. I was dead inside, and you brought me back to life. How can I ever repay you for such a miracle? Just stay by my side,” she replied. “Love me like this always.” And he did. But while they sought refuge in their sanctuary of love, back in the village, the seed of hatred they had sown took poisonous root.

In the house of the bouquets, the initial shock had transformed into furious humiliation. Elodia paced the small room like a caged animal. “How dare he? How dare he come here and rub his ugliness in our faces as if it were a trophy?” Catalina laughed, a bitter and cruel laugh.

Don’t worry, Mother. No one will believe it. Everyone knows he’s sterile. It’s as clear as day what happened. That vixen slept with another man, probably some hunter who happened to be passing by. Her savage husband is so stupid and desperate that he swallowed the story that the bastard is his. Ricardo, the father, who had been drinking brandy in a corner, raised his head. We shouldn’t talk about her like that.

“She’s your sister. She’s not my sister,” Catalina shouted, her face contorted with envy. “That thing has humiliated me. Do you know what they’re saying now at the market? ‘Look, there goes the sister of the miraculous one.’ They’re laughing at me. My husband, Adán, has thrown it in my face. It seems the defective one wasn’t your sister after all,” he told me last night. “She’s making my life a living hell.” Catalina’s idea, so vile and twisted, took root in Elodia’s mind.

It was the only explanation that would save his pride. It was the only way to regain control of the narrative. “You’re right,” the Ododia said slowly, a malicious light gleaming in his eyes. “You’re absolutely right. She’s deceived him. She’s stained our name with a bastard. We have to make everyone know. We have to make that mountain man see the kind of snake he’s let into his bed.” The next day, Catalina went to the market, not to buy, but to plant.

Whispering to her friends, the village gossip queens, she let slip the truth about her sister’s pregnancy. “Poor Marco,” she said, feigning a sadness she didn’t feel. “He’s so lonely he’s believed the lie, but we know the truth. Isabela was always weak-willed, a lost hunter, a passing stranger, who knows, ‘My mother is devastated. It’s a terrible disgrace.’” The story was juicy, scandalous, and, most importantly for the bored villagers, far more believable than a miracle.

It spread like a virus, infecting conversations in the cantina, at the church door, by the river, while the women did their laundry. The town was divided. The most cynical and envious clung to the infidelity story. Others, those who remembered Isabela’s sweetness before bitterness consumed her, doubted. One of those who doubted was Ana, the town’s elderly herbalist. A wise woman, with eyes that saw beyond appearances.

She had always had a special affection for Isabela and had never fully believed old Dr. Morales’s pronouncement. A few days later, she packed a basket with calming teas for nausea and balms for stretch marks and set off on the long walk up the mountain. She found Isabela in the garden, her face bathed in sunlight, singing softly as she pulled weeds. She had never seen her so radiant, so full of life. “My child,” Ana said with a smile.

“The mountains suit you well. You look like a flower that has finally found the sun.” Isabela stood up and hugged her tightly. “Ana, it’s so good to see you. Come in, please.” Marco is inside mending some furs. While they drank tea in the cabin, with Marco silently watching from his corner, Ana gently told him about the rumors circulating in the village. Isabela’s smile vanished, and impotent rage once again took root in her chest. Upon hearing the vile accusations, Marco jumped up.

His hands clenched into fists. A vein throbbed in his chest. “I’m going down there right now and rip your sister’s tongue out,” he growled. His voice was thunder. “No!” Isabela exclaimed, stepping in front of him. “Don’t stoop to their level. Violence won’t solve anything. It will only prove them right. They’ll call you a savage, but they’re defiling your honor. And our son’s,” he roared, his self-control on the verge of breaking.

“Our honor isn’t in their filthy mouths,” Marco said, placing her hands on his chest, forcing him to look at her. “It’s here, in this house, among us. As long as we know the truth, what they say is just noise.” Ana nodded, admiring the young woman’s maturity. “You’re right, Marco. The best way to combat poison is with the truth. And the truth, in time, always comes to light. But you must be careful. A lie repeated too often can become dangerous.”

Ana’s words proved prophetic. The humiliation of Isabela wasn’t enough for Elodia. She wanted her daughter back under her control, even if it meant destroying her first. A week later, accompanied by Catalina, she climbed the mountain. They arrived unannounced, finding Marco and Isabela sitting outside on a wooden bench he had built, enjoying the afternoon sun. “Isabela, my daughter,” Elodia began, his voice dripping with a false sweetness that made Isabela’s stomach churn.