April 12
I never imagined a divorce would end with a sneer and a tossed pillow. Yet thats exactly how James concluded our fiveyear marriage. From the moment I said I do, his icy remarks and distant stare became my daily backdrop. He never raised his voice, never threw a punch; his indifference was a slow bleed that left my heart feeling hollow.
After the ceremony we moved into his parents semidetached in Brixton. Mornings were a blur of preparing tea, doing the washing, and tidying the flat. Evenings, I would wait for James to come home, only to hear his habitual, Ive already eaten, as if I were invisible. I began to wonder whether I was a wife or merely a lodger. I tried to build a life, to love, but all I received was an empty silence that never seemed to fill.
One rainy Tuesday James arrived with his usual blank expression. He placed a stack of papers on the kitchen table and, in a flat tone, said, Sign this. I dont want to waste either of our time any longer. My hands trembled as tears pricked my eyes, but the fear and resignation were familiar. I signed, thinking of countless nights spent alone at the table, of stomachaches that never got a caring word, of the ache of being unnoticed. Each memory was a fresh wound.
I began packing what little was mine: a few dresses, a battered suitcase, and the old pillow I could never sleep without. As I hauled the suitcase toward the front door, James flung the pillow at me, his voice dripping with sarcasm, Take it and wash it. Its falling apart anyway. I caught it, heart tightening. The pillowcase was indeed faded, yellowed in places, with a seam ripped open.
That pillow had travelled with me from my mothers cottage in a small Yorkshire village, through university in Leeds, and into our marriage. James often complained about it, but I never let it go. I left his house in a heavy silence.
Back in the modest room I now rent, the pillow lay on the battered mattress, his mocking words still echoing in my head. Wanting at least a peaceful nights rest, I decided to strip the pillowcase and wash it. As I unzipped the cover, a hard lump caught my fingers. I froze, then carefully reached in and felt a small bundle wrapped in a nylon bag.
My hands shook as I unwrapped it. Inside was a thick stack of £20 notes and a folded piece of paper. I unfolded the note; the handwriting was unmistakably my mothersslanted, a little shaky, but unmistakable:
Dear Eleanor, this is the money I saved for you in case you ever find yourself in trouble. I hid it in the pillow because I feared youd be too proud to accept help. No matter what, dont let a mans coldness break you, love. Im always with you.
Tears streamed down, blotting the yellowed paper. I remembered the day of my wedding when Mum handed me the pillow, smiling, saying it would keep me comfortable. I had laughed then, replying, Youre getting old, Mum. James and I will be fine. She had smiled back, though her eyes held a sorrow I didnt understand then.
Now I pressed the pillow to my chest, feeling as though Mothers hand was gently smoothing my hair, whispering reassurance. She had always known the sort of man I might choose, and she had quietly woven a safety netnot riches, but enough to keep me from drowning.
That night I lay on the hard mattress, clutching the pillow as my tears soaked the fabric. I wasnt crying for James; I was crying for my mother, for her quiet love, for the gratitude that rose inside me. I realized I still had a place to return to, a woman who loved me unconditionally, and a world waiting to be embraced.
The next morning I folded the pillow carefully, tucked it into my suitcase, and resolved to find a smaller room nearer my job. I would send more money to Mum and live a life where I no longer shivered at a mans cold words. I stared at my reflection, eyes still puffy, and managed a faint smile.
This woman, bruised but not broken, would now live for herself, for her aging mother back home, and for the dreams I had put on hold. That marriage, that old pillow, that sneerjust the close of one sorrowful chapter. My story still has many pages left, and I will write them with my own steady hand.
