Revised Summary:
I spent five years married to Héctor, enduring his cold words and distant gaze. He wasn’t abusive or loud—just indifferent, which slowly withered my heart. We lived with his parents in Mexico City, where my days were filled with cooking, cleaning, laundry, and waiting. Evenings ended with him saying he’d already eaten, leaving me feeling like a tenant, not a wife.
One day, with a blank expression, he handed me divorce papers and said, “Sign it. I don’t want to waste our time.” I signed, tears welling, memories flooding back: the lonely dinners and silent nights. I gathered my few belongings—the faded old pillow that reminded me of home.
Héctor tossed the pillow at me sarcastically: “Take it and wash it.” The pillow was threadbare, yellow-stained, yet it meant more to me than furniture ever would.
In my rented room, I washed the pillowcase and discovered a carefully hidden bundle of 500-peso bills and a note in my mother’s shaky handwriting: she had saved that money for me in case I ever needed it—because she knew love shouldn’t be suffering.
Holding the pillow, I cried not for Héctor, but for my mother’s love and foresight. I realized I was lucky: I still had a home to return to and a world waiting for me.
That night, I embraced the pillow and the strength it represented. The next morning, I packed it with care and resolved to rent a small room near work, send money to my mother, and finally live for myself. The marriage, the pillow, the sneer—they were the end of a sad chapter. Now, many new pages awaited, to be written by my own resilient hands.