The Pillow

– A Loveless Marriage

Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the very first day, I became used to his cold words and empty stares. He was never violent or loud—but his indifference slowly drained the color from my life.

We lived in his parents’ house, tucked away in a neighborhood of Mexico City. Every morning, I woke up early to cook, clean, and do the laundry. Every evening, I waited for him to come home—only to hear him say:

“Yeah, I already ate.”

I often wondered: Is this a marriage or just silent cohabitation?

I tried to build something. I tried to love him. But all I got in return was emptiness—an invisible wall I could never break through.

Then one day, he walked in with that same blank expression, sat across from me, and said:

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

Divorce papers. His voice was flat, emotionless.

I wasn’t shocked. Deep down, I had known it was coming. I signed with trembling hands, tears welling in my eyes. My heart ached—not for him, but for the woman I used to be. The one who waited. The one who hoped.

I packed quietly. There wasn’t much that belonged to me in that house—just a few clothes and an old pillow I had carried with me since I was a university student.

As I pulled my suitcase to the door, Héctor tossed the pillow at me.

“Take that too—and wash it. It’s probably about to fall apart.”

I clutched it to my chest. The fabric was faded, stained, torn. But it was mine.

– What the Pillow Held

That pillow had been with me for years. I brought it from my mother’s home in Oaxaca when I first moved to the city. I brought it with me into Héctor’s house when we married—because I couldn’t sleep without it. He used to complain about it constantly.

Now, in my tiny rented room, his voice still echoed in my ears.

“It’s probably about to fall apart…”

I stared at it, numb. Then I decided: at least I can wash it. At least tonight, I’ll sleep clean—without old memories weighing me down.

But as I removed the pillowcase, I felt something strange. A lump. Something hidden inside.

I reached in, heart pounding.

A small plastic bag. Wrapped tightly.

Inside was a bundle of 500-peso bills—and a folded piece of paper.

My mother’s handwriting. Wobbly, familiar, tender:

“My daughter,
This is the money I saved for you in case of hardship. I hid it in the pillow because I knew you’d be too proud to take it.
No matter what, never suffer for a man.
I love you.”

Tears streamed down my face. I remembered how she had handed me that pillow on my wedding day.

“It’s soft,” she said. “So you’ll sleep well.”

I had laughed. “You’re getting old, Mom. That’s such a strange gift. Héctor and I will be happy.”

She only smiled—softly, sadly.

Now I understood.

She had known.

She had known how much a daughter might suffer in silence.

 – Writing New Pages

That night, I held the pillow tight against my chest—not as a reminder of what I’d lost, but of what I still had.

My mother. Her love. Her foresight.

She hadn’t left me with riches, but she had given me enough to stand up. To move forward. To not crumble under the weight of a cold goodbye.

The next morning, I woke early. I carefully folded the pillow and placed it in my suitcase again. This time, with gratitude.

I told myself I’d find a smaller room, closer to work. I’d send more money home. I’d live a life where I never again waited for someone to care.

I looked at myself in the mirror—puffy eyes, tired face—and smiled.

This woman, starting today, would live for herself.

For her mother.

For the dreams she once put on hold for the wrong man.

That marriage, that pillow, that sneer—it was just the end of a sad chapter.

And now, it was time to write a new one.