A Hollow Marriage

Héctor and I were married for five years, though it never truly felt like a marriage. From the very first day, I had to grow used to his cold tone and indifferent stares. He was never violent, never loud—just distant. But that distance drained me day by day until I felt like a shadow of myself.

After our wedding, we moved into his parents’ house in Mexico City. Each morning, I rose early to cook, clean, and do the laundry. Each night, I sat waiting for him to come home, only to hear the same words, delivered without looking at me:

“I already ate.”

I tried to pour love into that home, but it was like speaking into a void.

The Papers on the Table

One evening, Héctor returned with his usual blank expression. He sat across from me, slid a stack of papers onto the table, and said flatly:

“Sign this. I don’t want to waste any more of our time.”

My hand froze. I had known this day would come, but it still hurt. Tears blurred my vision as I picked up the pen. Each stroke of my signature reopened old wounds—the dinners I ate alone, the nights I ached in silence, the countless moments I felt invisible.

When it was over, I began to pack. There wasn’t much to take—just some clothes and the one thing that was truly mine: the old pillow I had carried with me for years.

A Cruel Parting

As I dragged my suitcase toward the door, Héctor tossed the pillow at me with a smirk.

“Take it and wash it. Looks like it’s about to fall apart anyway.”

I caught it, my chest tightening. The pillowcase was faded, yellowed, with seams beginning to split. Yet that pillow was more than fabric and filling. It had followed me from my mother’s home in Oaxaca, through university, and finally into this marriage. I couldn’t sleep without it, no matter how much Héctor mocked me for keeping it.

I left his house in silence.

The Secret Inside

Back in my small rented room, I sat staring at the pillow, still hearing his sneer. Wanting to rest without feeling his words echo in my mind, I decided to wash it.

As I unzipped the case, my hand brushed against something hard. My pulse quickened. I reached inside and pulled out a small bundle wrapped tightly in plastic.

Hands trembling, I unwrapped it. Inside was a thick stack of 500-peso bills and a folded note.

The handwriting was shaky, but I knew it instantly—it was my mother’s.

“My dear daughter, this is the money I saved for you in case life became too heavy. I hid it here because I knew you might be too proud to take it otherwise. Never suffer because of a man. I love you always.”

The paper blurred through my tears. I remembered my wedding day, when my mother handed me the pillow and smiled, saying it would help me sleep well. I laughed and told her she was being silly, that Héctor and I would be happy. She had only smiled again, though her eyes carried a sadness I hadn’t understood back then.

A Mother’s Love

I pressed the pillow to my chest, and for a moment, it felt as if my mother was right beside me, brushing my hair back, whispering comfort.

She had known. She had always known. And she had quietly prepared a way to protect me—not with wealth, but with love and foresight.

That night, lying on a hard bed in my rented room, I clutched the pillow and cried. But my tears weren’t for Héctor.

They were for my mother—for her kindness, for her sacrifice, for the unshakable truth that I was never alone.

A New Beginning

The next morning, I folded the pillow carefully and placed it into my suitcase. I told myself I would find a smaller room, closer to work. I would send more money back home. And I would no longer live trembling under a man’s coldness.

Looking into the mirror, I saw a woman with swollen eyes, yet a faint smile forming on her lips.

This woman would live for herself. For her aging mother. For the dreams she still carried.

That broken marriage, that old pillow, that sneer—they were nothing more than the end of one chapter.

And I still had so many unwritten pages left, waiting for me to fill them with my own hands.