Arjun and I had been married for five years. From the very first day I became his wife, I had learned to live with his harsh words and indifferent gaze. Arjun wasn’t violent or loud, but his indifference made my heart ache more and more each day. After marriage, we lived at his parents’ house in Lajpat Nagar, Delhi. Every morning, I would wake up early to cook, wash, and clean. Every evening, I would sit and wait for him to come home, only to hear, “I’ve eaten.” I often wondered if this marriage was any different from being a tenant. I tried to build relationships, tried to love, but all I found was an invisible emptiness I couldn’t fill.

One day, Arjun came home with a sad face. He sat down in front of me, slid the divorce papers across the table, and said, as dry as dust:
“Sign it. Let’s stop wasting each other’s time.”

I was stunned, but not surprised. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I picked up the pen with a trembling hand. Memories flooded my mind—food left cold on the table, nights when I silently held my aching stomach so as not to wake anyone. I signed.

After that, I packed my things. Nothing in that house truly belonged to me, except a few clothes and the old pillow I always slept with. As I was pulling my suitcase toward the door, Arjun threw the pillow at me, his voice laced with sarcasm:
“Take it and wash it. It’s probably about to break.”

I grabbed the pillow, my heart sinking. It was really old—its cover was faded, the fabric yellow and worn in places. Years ago, when I came to Delhi University, I had brought it from my parents’ home in a small town near Bundi, Rajasthan. Even after marriage, I kept it because I couldn’t sleep without it. Arjun would grumble about that “useless thing,” but I never let it go.

I quietly left that house.

In my rented PG room in Karol Bagh, I stared at the pillow, hearing its sarcastic voice in my mind. I thought I’d at least wash it—maybe a clean pillow would help me sleep tonight without those painful dreams.

When I opened the pillowcase, my fingers touched something strange. There was a lump inside the soft cotton. I reached in—and froze. A small bundle of paper, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside was a stack of money—500 rupee notes—and a piece of paper folded in four. I opened it. Letters in my mother’s familiar, slightly faltering handwriting appeared across the page:

“Daughter, I saved this money for you, in case life gets tough. I hid it in your pillow because I knew you’d be too proud to admit it. No matter what happens, don’t suffer for a man. Mom loves you.”

My tears flowed onto the yellowing paper.

I remembered my wedding day, when my mother had pressed the pillow into my hands and told me it was so soft—”You’ll sleep well.” I laughed and teased, “You’re being sentimental, Mom. Arjun and I will be happy.” She just smiled, a deep sadness in her eyes.

I hugged the pillow to my chest. It felt as if my mother was sitting next to me, stroking my hair, whispering that I wasn’t alone.

It turned out that she had always known how much pain a daughter could suffer if she chose the wrong man. It turned out that she had prepared a quiet safety net—not great wealth, but enough to keep me from drowning.

That night, I lay on the hard bed in the PG, clutching a pillow. My tears soaked the suitcase, but this time I wasn’t crying for Arjun, but for love—my mother’s, unwavering and understanding love.

I was crying because I still had a place to return to. Because I still had my mother. Because the world outside my tiny room was still vast, waiting.

The next morning, I woke up early, carefully folded the pillow, and put it in my suitcase. I told myself I would find a small room near my office in Connaught Place, reduce my visits, and start afresh. I will send more money to my mother in Bundi, and build a life where I don’t have to shiver waiting for someone’s cold message.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. This woman with puffy eyes will, from now on, live for herself—for her old mother—and for all the dreams she once held back.

That wedding. That old pillow. That sarcasm.

It was all just the end of a sad chapter.

As for my life—there are still many pages left, and I will write them myself, with steady hands and a strong heart.