Hey love, Ive got to tell you about the mess I just walked out of. So, after five years of being married to James, I finally packed my things and left the house his parents own in a quiet culdesac in Manchester. From day one, his tone was icy, his glances blank. He never raised his voice or threw a tantrum, but his indifference slowly emptied me out, like a leaky bucket.
Every morning I was up before the sun, whipping up breakfast, doing the laundry, tidying up. Every evening Id sit waiting for him to walk through the front door, only to get the same deadpan, Ive already eaten, and hed be off to the sofa with the telly. I kept asking myself whether I was a wife or just a tenant. I tried to build something, I tried to love, but all I got back was that hollow silence you cant fill.
One afternoon James came home, his face as flat as ever. He plonked a stack of papers on the kitchen table and said, Sign this. I dont want us both wasting any more time. I was numb. Tears were already stinging my eyes when I picked up the pen, my hand shaking. All the memories rushed back the lonely dinners, the latenight stomach aches, the feeling of being invisible each one like a fresh cut.
I signed, started boxing up the few things that were actually mine: a couple of dresses and that old pillow Ive slept with for years. As I dragged my suitcase to the door, James flung the pillow at me, sneering, Take it and wash it, its falling to pieces. I caught it, my chest tightening. The pillowcase was indeed threadbare, yellowed in spots, the seams frayed.
That pillow had been with me since I was a kid, from my mums small flat in Yorkshire, through university in Leeds, right into the marriage. I couldnt drift off without it. James always complained, but I never let go of it.
I left in silence, and once I was back in my tiny rented room, I stared at the pillow and heard his sarcastic voice echoing in my head. I thought Id at least get a decent nights sleep, so I slipped off the cover and put it in the washing machine. When I unzipped the case, though, I felt something hard tucked in the soft stuffing. My hand froze. I reached in, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a nylon bag.
Inside was a neat stack of £20 notes adding up to about £500, plus a folded scrap of paper. I unfolded it and saw my mums shaky handwriting straight away:
Dear Poppy, this is the money I saved for you in case you ever need it. I hid it in your pillow because I feared youd be too proud to take it. No matter what, dont suffer for a man, love. Im proud of you.
Tears burst, soaking the yellowed paper. I remembered the day of the wedding, Mum handing me that pillow, smiling and saying it would help me sleep. Id laughed then, Youre getting old, Mum. James and I will be fine. Shed just smiled, though there was a quiet sadness in her eyes I hadnt noticed back then.
Now I pressed the pillow to my chest, feeling as if Mum were right there, smoothing my hair and whispering comfort. Shed always known, always understood how easily a girl could be bruised by the wrong man, and shed quietly set a safety net not riches, but enough to keep me from hitting rock bottom.
That night I lay on the hard mattress of my little flat, clutching the pillow as the tears soaked its fabric. But this time I wasnt crying for James. I was crying for my mother, for her love, and for the gratitude that finally settled in me. I realized I still had a place to go back to, someone who loved me, and a whole world out there waiting for me.
In the morning I folded the pillow carefully, tucked it into my suitcase, and told myself Id find a smaller room closer to work, send more money back to Mum, and live a life where I dont flinch at a mans cold words. I caught my reflection in the mirror, gave myself a tiny smile. This woman, eyes a bit swollen, was finally living for herself, for her ageing mum, and for the dreams shed put on hold.
That marriage, that old pillow, that sneer just the end of one sad chapter. There are still plenty of pages left to write, and Im ready to fill them with my own steady hand.
