Tears spilled onto the faded paper. I remembered my wedding day — how my mother had given me that same pillow, saying it was extra soft, so I’d sleep well.
I laughed then and told her, “You’re getting sentimental, Mom. Don’t worry — Héctor and I will be happy.”
She just smiled, her eyes distant and sad.
Now, clutching that pillow to my chest, I felt as if she were right there beside me, stroking my hair, telling me everything would be okay. She had always known how deeply a daughter could suffer after choosing the wrong man. And she had left me not riches, but a quiet safety net — something to remind me that I was never alone.
That night, I lay on the hard bed of my small rented room, hugging the pillow as tears soaked the fabric. But this time, I wasn’t crying for Héctor.
I cried for my mother.
For her love.
For the realization that I was still lucky — because I still had somewhere to return to, a mother who loved me, and a whole world waiting outside.
The next morning, I woke early, folded the pillow carefully, and placed it in my suitcase. I told myself I’d find a smaller room closer to work, send more money to my mother, and build a life where I no longer had to tremble or wait for cold, empty words.
