Divorced, he snarls and flings a pillow at me. When I unzip it to clean it, what I find inside makes my hands shake.
Mark and I have been married for five years. From the moment I become his wife, I grow used to his chilly remarks and distant looks. Mark never raises his voice or throws a punch, but his indifference slowly drains me until my heart feels empty.
After the wedding we move into his parents semidetached house in a leafy suburb of Manchester. Every morning I get up before the kettle whistles, cook breakfast, do the washing, and tidy the living room. Every evening I sit waiting for Mark to come home, only to hear his usual shrug and the same dismissive line:
Yeah, Ive already had dinner.
I often wonder whether this marriage is any different from being a mere lodger. I try to build a life, I try to love, but all I receive in return is a hollow silence I cant fill.
One afternoon Mark returns with his usual blank stare. He drops a stack of papers on the kitchen table and, in a flat tone, says:
Sign this. I dont want to waste either of our time any longer.
I freeze. Deep down Im not surprised. With tears pricking my eyes, I pick up the pen, my hand trembling. Memories rush backnights waiting alone at the dinner table, the lonely ache of stomach growls in the dark, the constant feeling of being unseen. Each recollection feels like a fresh wound.
I sign, and then I start packing my things. There is nothing in this house that truly belongs to me, except a few shirts and the old pillow I have always slept with.
As I drag my suitcase toward the front door, Mark hurls the pillow at me, his voice dripping with mockery:
Take it and wash it. Its falling to pieces anyway.
I catch the pillow, my heart tightening. It is indeed ancientthe cover is faded, yellowed in patches, and the seams are split. This pillow has travelled with me from my mothers cottage in a tiny village in Devon, through university life in Bristol, and into my marriage. I cant sleep without it. Mark has complained about it endlessly, but I never let it go.
I leave his house in silence. Back in my small rented flat, I sit on the battered sofa, still hearing Marks sarcastic tone echo in my head. I decide I need at least a decent nights rest, so I take the pillow, strip off the cover and set it in the sink to wash.
When I unzip the cover, something odd brushes my fingertips. A hard lump sits hidden among the soft cotton. My hand stops. Carefully I push my fingers inside and pull out a small bundle wrapped in a clear nylon bag.
My fingers shake as I open it. Inside is a thick stack of £20 notes and a folded piece of paper. I unfold the note. The handwriting is instantly familiarshaky, but unmistakably my mothers:
My dear Poppy, this is the money I saved for you in case you ever need it. I slipped it into your pillow because I feared youd be too proud to accept help. No matter what, dont suffer for a man, love. Im with you always.
Tears spill over, smudging the yellowed paper. My mind flashes back to my wedding day. Mother handed me the pillow, smiling, saying it was soft and would help me sleep well.
I had laughed then and replied, Youre getting old, Mum. What a funny idea. Mark and I will be happy. She smiled again, though a distant sorrow lingered in her eyes that I didnt notice at the time.
Now I press the pillow to my chest, feeling as if Mother is right beside me, smoothing my hair and whispering comfort. She always knew how much her daughter could suffer if she chose the wrong partner. She quietly prepared a safety netnot riches, but enough to keep me from desperation.
That night I lie on the hard mattress of my flat, clutching the pillow as tears dampen the fabric. This time Im not crying for Mark. Im crying because I love my mother, because I am grateful, because I realise I still have a place to return to, someone who loves me, and a whole world waiting to welcome me.
The next morning I fold the pillow carefully, tuck it into my suitcase, and resolve to rent a smaller room closer to my job. I will send more money to Mum and live a life where I no longer flinch at a mans cold words.
I glance in the mirror and manage a faint smile. This woman, eyes still a little puffy, will now live for herself, for her aging mother back home, and for the dreams she left unfinished.
That marriage, that old pillow, that sneerthey are simply the closing of one sad chapter.
My story still has many pages left, and I will write them with my own resilient hands.
