Héctor 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 glances. Héctor was neither violent nor loud, but his apathy wilted my heart a little more each day.

After our wedding, we lived in his parents’ house in a neighborhood in Madrid. Every morning, I woke up early to cook, do the laundry, and clean. Every night, I sat waiting for his return, only to hear him say:

—Yes, I’ve already eaten.

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

Then one day, Héctor came home with a frozen, absent expression. He sat across from me, handed me the divorce papers, and said in a dry voice:

—Sign. I don’t want to waste any more time, neither yours nor mine.

I froze, but I wasn’t surprised. With tears in my eyes, I took the pen with trembling hands. All the memories of waiting for him at the table, of the nights I endured stomach pains alone, flooded back like deep cuts.

After signing, I gathered my things. There was nothing in his house that belonged to me, except for some clothes and the old pillow I always slept with. As I dragged my suitcase toward the door, Héctor tossed me the pillow, sarcasm dripping from his voice:

—Take it and wash it. It’s probably about to fall apart.

I clutched the pillow, my heart aching. It was indeed old; the cover was worn, with yellow stains and a few tears. It was the pillow I had brought from my mother’s house in a village in Extremadura when I came to study in the city. I kept it after marrying because I couldn’t sleep without it. He always complained, but I held on to it. I left that house in silence.

Back in my rented room, I sat dazed, staring at the pillow. Thinking of his words, I decided to remove the cover to wash it, at least to sleep clean and without dreaming of painful memories. As I unbuttoned the cover, I noticed something strange. There was something hard among the cotton filling. I reached in and froze. A small paper wrap, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag.

I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a bundle of bills, all €500 notes, and a folded piece of paper. I unfolded the paper. The familiar, shaky handwriting of my mother appeared:

“Dear daughter, if you ever find yourself in need, remember that love is not always in the words spoken, but in the actions taken. This money is for you. Use it wisely.”

Tears fell onto the yellowed paper. I remembered that on the day of my wedding, my mother had given me the pillow, saying it was very soft, so I could sleep well. I laughed and told her:

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

She just smiled, with a sad and distant look. I squeezed the pillow against my chest, as if my mother were by my side, 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 cover with my tears. But this time, I didn’t cry for Héctor. I cried for my mother’s love. For the luck of having a place to return to, a mother who loved me, and a vast world waiting for me.

The next morning, I woke up early, carefully folded the pillow, and put it in my suitcase. I promised myself that I would 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 that day forward, would live for herself, for her aging mother in the village, and for the youthful dreams she had yet to fulfill. That marriage, that old pillow, that mockery… 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.