Harry and I had been married for five years. From the very first day, I grew used to his cold words and indifferent glances. He was never violent or loud, just apathetic—slowly draining me of joy.

After the wedding, we lived in his parents’ house in Mexico City. I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, and waited for him every evening, only to hear, “Yeah, I already ate.”

Sometimes I wondered if I was a wife or just a tenant. I gave love, but received only emptiness.

One evening, Harry came home, his face blank. He sat across from me, pushed a divorce paper forward, and said flatly:

“Sign it. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”

I wasn’t surprised, but my hands shook as I signed. All the nights I endured stomachaches alone, all the dinners I waited through, came rushing back like deep wounds.

I packed quickly. There was little in that house that was truly mine—just some clothes and my old pillow.

As I dragged my suitcase out, Harry tossed the pillow at me, sneering:

“Take it and wash it. It’s probably falling apart.”

It was true.

The fabric was faded, yellowed with stains, even torn. But it was the pillow I had carried from my mother’s home in Oaxaca when I left for university. I had kept it when I married, because I couldn’t sleep without it. Harry often mocked it, but I never let it go.

Back in my rented room, his words echoed bitterly. I decided to strip off the old pillowcase and wash it, hoping at least for clean rest that night. But as I unzipped it, my fingers touched something odd. Hidden inside the cotton stuffing was a carefully wrapped bundle.

My heart raced. Inside the nylon bag was a stack of 500-peso bills—and a folded note in my mother’s shaky handwriting:
“My daughter, this is money I saved for you in case of hardship. I hid it in the pillow because I knew you’d be too proud to accept it. Don’t suffer for a man. I love you.”

Tears blurred my eyes. I remembered my wedding day, when she gave me the pillow, insisting it was soft so I’d sleep well. I had laughed and said, “Mom, what a strange gift. Harry and I will be happy.” She only smiled, her eyes distant, as if she already knew.

Clutching the pillow, I felt her love wrapping around me, soothing me. She had prepared for the moment when my heart would break—not with riches, but with a lifeline to keep me from despair.

That night, I cried, not for Harry, but for my mother. For her quiet foresight, her unwavering love. And for myself, because I still had a home to return to, and a world that hadn’t closed its doors.

By morning, I knew what I had to do. I folded the pillow carefully and placed it in my suitcase. I would rent a smaller room, closer to work. I would send more money to my mother. And I would stop trembling, stop waiting for cold scraps of affection.

I smiled at my reflection. My eyes were swollen, but inside me, something was reborn. From that day on, I would live for myself, for my mother, and for all the dreams I had left behind.

That loveless marriage, that sneer, that old pillow—it was just the end of one chapter. Ahead of me lay blank pages, waiting to be written with my own strength and heart.