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 withered my heart a little more every day.

After our wedding, we lived in his parents’ house, in a neighborhood of Madrid.

Every morning I got up early to cook, do laundry, and clean.

Every night I sat waiting for him to arrive, only to hear him say:

—Yes, I’ve already eaten.

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

Then one day, Hector came home with a cold and absent face.

He sat down opposite me, handed me the divorce papers and said in a dry voice:

—Sign. I don’t want to waste any more of your time or mine.

I froze, but I wasn’t surprised. With tears in my eyes, I picked up the pen with trembling hands. All the memories of waiting for him at the table, of the stomach-aching nights I endured alone, came flooding back like deep cuts.

After signing, I gathered my things.

There was nothing in his house that belonged to me, except some clothes and the old pillow I always slept with.

As I was pulling my suitcase out the door, Hector threw the pillow at me, sarcastically:

—Take it and wash it. I’m sure it’s about to fall apart.

I picked up the pillow, my heart sinking. It was really old; the pillowcase was worn, with yellowish stains and a few tears.

It was the pillow I had brought from my mother’s house in a town in Extremadura when I came to study in the city, and I kept it when I got married because I couldn’t sleep without it.

He always complained, but I kept holding on to her. I left that house in silence.

Back in my rented room, I sat dazed, staring at my pillow. Thinking about his words, I decided to remove the pillowcase and wash it, at least to sleep clean and without dreaming of painful memories.

As I unzipped the cover, I noticed something odd. There was something hard between the cotton padding. I put my hand in and froze. A small paper wrapper, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag.

I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a wad of bills, all 500 euros, and a piece of paper folded in four.

I unfolded the paper. My mother’s shaky, familiar handwriting appeared:

<>

My tears fell onto the yellowed paper. I remembered that, on my wedding day, my mother had given me the pillow, saying it was very soft, so I could sleep well.

I laughed and said to him:

—Mother, you’re old, what strange things you think. Hector and I will be happy.

She just smiled, her gaze sad and distant. I clutched the pillow to my chest, as if my mother were beside me, stroking my hair and comforting me.

She always knew how much a daughter would suffer if she chose the wrong man. She always had a plan for me; not one of wealth, but one that saved me from despair.

That night, I lay on the hard bed in my rented room, hugging the pillow, soaking the pillowcase with my tears.

But this time she wasn’t crying for Hector.

I cried for my mother’s love.

For the luck of having a place to return to, a mother who loved me, and a huge world waiting for me.

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

I would send more money to my mother and live a life where I wouldn’t have to tremble or wait for cold messages from anyone.

I smiled at myself in the mirror.

That woman with swollen eyes, from today on, would live for herself, for her mother growing old in the village, and for the dreams of her youth that she had not yet fulfilled.

That marriage, that old pillow, that mockery… they were just the end of a sad chapter. My life, on the other hand, had many new pages waiting to be written by my own strong hands.