Héctor and I were married for five years. From day one, his cold words and distant looks hollowed my heart. We lived with his parents in Mexico City: I managed all household chores and waited every evening for him, only to be told, “Yeah, I already ate.” It felt less like a marriage and more like renting space—my love met only by emptiness.
Then, one night, he handed me divorce papers in a flat voice. I signed. Returning to my rented room, I packed my few belongings and held onto the old pillow I’d brought from my mother’s home in Oaxaca—the one Héctor mocked.
When I removed the pillowcase to wash it, I found a hidden bundle of 500-peso bills and a note in my mom’s shaky handwriting: “For hardship. Don’t suffer for a man. I love you.” Tears fell as I realized my mother had always known.
That night, in my simple room, I cried—not over Héctor, but for my mother’s love and the new hope she gave me. I packed the pillow with care and the next morning decided to rent a smaller room closer to work, send more support home, and finally live for myself, for her, and for the dreams I still have left.