Harry and I had been married for five years. From the very first day, I grew used to his cold words and indifferent glances. He was never violent or loud, just apathetic—slowly draining me of joy.

After the wedding, we lived in his parents’ house in Mexico City. I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, and waited for him every evening, only to hear, “Yeah, I already ate.”

Sometimes I wondered if I was a wife or just a tenant. I gave love, but received only emptiness.

One evening, Harry came home, his face blank. He sat across from me, pushed a divorce paper forward, and said flatly:

“Sign it. I don’t want to waste either of our time anymore.”

I wasn’t surprised, but my hands shook as I signed. All the nights I endured stomachaches alone, all the dinners I waited through, came rushing back like deep wounds.

I packed quickly. There was little in that house that was truly mine—just some clothes and my old pillow.

As I dragged my suitcase out, Harry tossed the pillow at me, sneering:

“Take it and wash it. It’s probably falling apart.”

It was true.