Divorced, my husband sarcastically threw an old pillow at me, but when I removed the pillowcase to wash it, I was speechless at what I found inside…
My husband and I had been married for five years. From the first day I became his wife, I grew accustomed to his cold words and distant glances. He wasn’t violent or loud, but his indifference made my heart shrivel a little more each day.
After the wedding, we lived at his parents’ house. Every morning I got up early to cook, wash, and clean. Every night I sat waiting for him, only to hear, “Yes, I’ve eaten.” I often wondered, was this married life any different from living in a boarding house? I tried hard to build, to love, but in return I only received an invisible emptiness I couldn’t fill.
Then one day, he came home with a blank face. He sat down across from me, handed me the divorce papers, and said in a dry voice:
“Sign. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”
I froze, but I wasn’t surprised. With tears in my eyes, I took the pen, trembling. All the memories of the dinners I’d looked forward to, of the times I’d had stomach aches in the middle of the night that only I could bear, suddenly came flooding back like deep stabs.
After signing, I packed my things. There was nothing in his house that belonged to me, except my few clothes and an old pillow I used to sleep on. As I was about to walk out the door with my suitcase, he threw the pillow at me, his voice full of sarcasm:
“Take it and wash it; it’s probably disintegrating by now.”
I took the pillow, feeling a lump in my throat. It was really old; the cover was faded, with some yellowish stains and worn. It was the pillow I’d brought from my mother’s house to the city when I went to college, and I kept it when I got married because I had trouble sleeping without it. He complained once, but I kept it.
I left that house in silence. In my rented room, I sat dazed, staring at the pillow. Thinking about his sarcastic words, I decided to take off the pillowcase to wash it, at least so it would be clean and I could sleep well tonight, without dreaming of painful memories.
As I unzipped the pillowcase, I felt something strange. There was something hard inside the soft cotton filling. I put my hand in and stopped dead in my tracks. Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it…

Hector and I had been married for five years. From the first day I became his wife, I grew accustomed to his cold words and indifferent looks.

Hector wasn’t violent or loud, but his apathy made my heart sink a little more each day.

After the wedding, we lived in his parents’ house in a neighborhood of Mexico City.

Every morning I got up early to cook, do laundry, and clean. Every night I sat and waited for him to arrive, only to hear him say, “Yes, I’ve had dinner.”

I often wondered if this marriage was any different than being a tenant. I tried to build, I tried to love, but all I received in return was an invisible void I couldn’t fill. Then, one day,

Hector came home, his face cold and expressionless. He sat across from me, handed me a divorce paper, and said in a dry voice, “Sign it. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

I froze, but I wasn’t surprised. With tears in my eyes, I picked up the pen with a trembling hand.

All the memories of waiting for him at the table, of the times I’d had stomach aches in the middle of the night that I endured alone, came flooding back like deep wounds.

After signing, I packed my things. There was nothing in his house that belonged to me, except for a few clothes and the old pillow I always slept with.

As I was carrying my suitcase out the door, Héctor threw the pillow at me in a voice full of sarcasm: “Take it and wash it. I’m sure it’s about to fall apart.”

I took the pillow with a sinking heart. It was really old; the pillowcase was faded, stained with yellowish stains, and torn.

It was the pillow I’d brought from my mother’s house in a small town in Oaxaca when I went to university in the city, and I kept it when I became his wife because I had trouble sleeping without it.

He used to complain, but I kept it. I left that house in silence. Back in my rented room, I sat stunned, staring at the pillow.

Thinking about his sarcastic words, I decided to remove the pillowcase to wash it, at least so it would be clean and I could sleep well that night, without dreaming of painful memories.

As I unzipped the pillowcase, I felt something strange. There was something lumpy inside the soft cotton fluff.

I put my hand in and froze. A small wad of paper, carefully wrapped in a nylon bag. I opened it with trembling hands.

Inside was a wad of bills, all 500 pesos, and a piece of paper folded in four. I opened the paper.

My mother’s familiar handwriting appeared, shaky and trembling: “My child, this is the money I saved for you in case of need. I hid it in the pillow because I was afraid you’d be too proud to take it. Whatever happens, don’t worry about a man, my dear. I love you.

My tears fell in torrents onto the yellowed paper. I remembered that on my wedding day, my mother had given me the pillow, telling me it was very soft so I could sleep well. I laughed and said, “You’re getting old, Mom, how strange to think about it. Hector and I will be happy.”

My mother simply smiled, with a distant, sad look in her eyes. I hugged the pillow to my chest, feeling as if my mother were sitting beside me, stroking my hair and comforting me.

It turned out she had always known how much a daughter would suffer if she chose the wrong man. It turned out she had prepared a plan B for me; not one of the rich, but one that would save me from despair.

That night, I lay on the hard bed in my small rented room, clutching the pillow to my chest, tears soaking the pillowcase. But this time, I wasn’t crying for Hector. I was crying because I loved my mother.

I cried because I felt lucky, because at least I still had a place to return to, a mother who loved me, and a big world out there waiting to welcome me.

The next morning, I woke up early, folded the pillow carefully, and packed it in my suitcase. I told myself I’d rent a smaller room, closer to work.

I would send my mother more money and live a life where I no longer had to shiver or wait for a cold text message. I smiled in the mirror.

This puffy-eyed woman, from today on, would live for herself, for her elderly mother at home, and for all the unfinished dreams of her youth.

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

As for my life, there were still many new pages to be written with my own resilient hands and heart.