After the divorce, my ex tossed an old pillow at me with disdain. When I opened it to wash it, I couldn’t believe what I found inside!

Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the first day I became his wife, I got used to his cold words and indifferent looks. Héctor was not violent and he didn’t shout, but his apathy withered my heart a little more each day.

(It might be an image of two people and some text.)

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

Every morning I got up early to cook, wash clothes and clean.

Every night I sat waiting for him to come home only to hear him say:

“Yes, I’ve already eaten.”

I often asked myself 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 emptiness I could not fill.

Then, one day, Héctor came home with a frozen, distant face.

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 of my time or yours.”

I froze—though 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 nights with stomach pain I endured alone, came back all at once like deep cuts.

After signing, I gathered my things.

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

As I was dragging my suitcase to the door, Héctor threw the pillow at me, sarcasm in his voice:

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

I caught the pillow, my heart shrinking. It really was old; the case was worn, with yellowish stains and a tear or two.

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, and I kept it after marrying because without it I couldn’t sleep.

He always complained, but I kept it anyway. I left that house in silence.

Back in the rented room, I sat there stunned, staring at the pillow. Thinking of his words, I decided to remove the cover to wash it—at least to sleep clean, without dreaming painful memories.

When I unbuttoned the cover, I noticed something odd. There was something hard among the cotton filling. I slipped my hand in and froze. A small paper bundle, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag.

I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a wad of bills, all 500‑euro notes, and a sheet of paper folded into quarters.

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

[ (empty note) ]

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

I laughed and told her:

“Mother, you’re getting old—you think such strange things. Héctor and I will be happy.”

She only smiled, with a sad and distant look. I hugged 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 a plan to make me rich, but one that saved me from despair.

That night, I lay down on the hard bed in my rented room, clutching the pillow, soaking the cover with my tears.

But this time I wasn’t crying for Héctor.

I was crying 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 got up early, folded the pillow carefully and put it in my suitcase. I promised myself 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 tremble or wait for anyone’s cold messages.

I smiled at the mirror.

That woman with swollen eyes, from today onward, would live for herself, for her aging mother back in the village, and for the youthful dreams she had not yet fulfilled.

That marriage, that old pillow, that mocking remark… were only the end of a sad chapter. My life, however, had many new pages waiting to be written by my own strong hands.

If you can supply the missing content of the mother’s note, I can integrate and translate it smoothly. Just let me know.