Divorced, my husband threw an old pillow at me with a look of disdain — but when I opened it to wash it, I froze at what I found inside…
Héctor and I had been married for five years. From the very first day I became his wife, I grew used to his cold words and distant looks. Héctor was never violent, never shouted — but his indifference made my heart wither a little more each day.
After the wedding, we lived with his parents in a neighborhood in Mexico City. Every morning, I woke up early to cook, wash, and clean. Every evening, I sat and waited for him, only to hear the same words:
—“I already ate.”
I often wondered if being married was any different from being a tenant. I tried to build something, tried to love him, but all I ever received in return was an invisible emptiness I couldn’t fill.
Then one day, Héctor came home with that same expressionless face. He sat down across from me, handed me divorce papers, and said flatly:
—“Sign them. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”
I froze. My eyes filled with tears as I took the pen with trembling hands. Memories rushed through me — nights I waited for him to come home, dinners gone cold, the times I lay awake sick and alone while he slept soundly beside me. Each memory cut deeper than the last.
After signing, I began packing my things. There was almost nothing in that house that was truly mine — just some clothes and an old pillow I always slept with. As I was about to walk out with my suitcase, Héctor tossed the pillow at me with a sarcastic smirk.
—“Take it and wash it. It’s probably falling apart already.”
