"Sometimes, letting go is the greatest act of self-love."
—Anonymous
Ailín began to wonder if her sadness was only due to empty nest syndrome and the hormonal changes she was experiencing—or if it went deeper. She realized she had been disconnected from herself for years, neglecting her desires and suppressing her emotions. Somewhere along that silent path, she had also disconnected from Dylan.
One night, as she picked up a cup from the sink, Ailín paused by the window. The house was silent, but inside her, an old echo resonated. It was a familiar feeling—a mix of emptiness, frustration, and sorrow. She placed the cup on the counter, walked upstairs, gently closed the bedroom door, and sat at the edge of the bed. Then she burst into tears.
She cried for a long time. Not because of one specific thing, but because of everything she hadn't said, everything she had endured, and everything she had lost of herself.
"I don't know who I am anymore," she whispered into the silence.
Oscurita slipped out from a dark corner of the room.
"See? I always knew it," she said quietly, as if she had been waiting for this moment. "Without them—without your role as a mother, without Dylan—you're nobody."
But this time, Ailín didn't respond. She just cried until she fell asleep, hugging her pillow.
The next morning, her eyes swollen from crying, she woke up with a different kind of decision in her heart. She would give her relationship with Dylan one more chance. She wanted to try to rekindle the flame. So she invited him to spend a weekend at the beach, like they used to when they were dating. Dylan was enthusiastic about the idea. But on the day of the trip, an urgent work call made him cancel.
For Ailín, this was revealing. It wasn't the first time. And she no longer had the strength to justify his absences. It wasn't just the routine or the mental load—it was the loneliness she had lived with, even while accompanied.
Andrea mentioned that Vivian, the former cheerleading captain from college, was now a successful, child-free lawyer who happened to work closely with Dylan. They spent many hours together. Ailín wasn't naturally jealous, but her insecurities resurfaced.
She tried to open up to Dylan, to talk about her inner world—her feelings, fears, and overwhelming sadness. But he seemed to be on another frequency. He was kind and polite, but absent. Immersed in his career, he no longer truly listened. Their conversations became trivial. They no longer argued, nor did they connect. They shared a roof, chores, and family plans—but not intimacy. Their bond had worn away like a stone under rain.
The arguments increased. Dylan began criticizing her with remarks like:
"You have too much free time."
"You don't seem interested in anything anymore."
"Can't you at least do something productive?"
Those words cut deep. Ailín felt as though her invisible labor—the emotional, everyday efforts to hold everything together—had become invisible to him. As if her devotion had no value.
One night, over dinner, the silence became unbearable. The clinking of cutlery against plates was the only sound. Ailín looked at Dylan and realized she couldn't remember the last time his embrace had felt like home. There was no resentment, just a distance that hurt more than yelling ever could.
Dylan looked at her, as if trying to read her mind.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly.
She hesitated. Then she put her utensils down, lowered her gaze, and slowly looked up.
"I don't think I know who I am anymore," she whispered. There was no blame in her voice. Just pain.
Dylan frowned, trying to grasp what she meant.
"Are you talking about us? About what we're going through?"
Ailín shook her head gently.
"I'm talking about me. About how I've become someone I barely recognize."
She paused, then added:
"I love you, Dylan. But I don't know if I can keep being this version of myself just to fit into what we used to be."
Dylan reached across the table, but his hand stopped midway.
"I don't want to lose you."
"I didn't want to lose myself either," she replied quietly.
That brief exchange held more truth than any fight ever could. A truth that spilled over the edges of the table. They both knew that after that moment, nothing would ever be the same.
That night, Ailín returned to her room alone. She sat in front of the mirror—not looking at her face, but into her own eyes, searching for something she had long lost.
Oscurita reappeared. She saw her reflection beside her in the mirror.
"Do you really think being alone will be better?" she whispered. "What if you regret it? What if no one ever chooses you again?"
Ailín didn't flinch.
"I'm choosing myself," she said, her voice firm.
Oscurita looked at her silently.
"You've tried this before. Do you remember the pain?"
"I do," Ailín nodded. "But I also remember what it feels like to vanish inside a life where I no longer exist."
She stood up. From a drawer, she took a blank piece of paper and wrote three words:
"I want to live differently."
Oscurita said nothing more.
Ailín made the difficult decision to separate. Though it was painful, she knew it was necessary for her healing. "I want to be the protagonist of my life again," she thought. Dylan would always matter to her, but she no longer wanted to share her life with him.
Surprisingly, Dylan accepted without much resistance. A few weeks later, they parted ways by mutual agreement. It was a farewell without shouting or blame—but with deep sorrow, as if a part of their history had shattered. Their children, now adults, understood their parents' decision.
As Ailín packed her things, she felt an overwhelming emptiness. The house they had shared for over 25 years would no longer be hers. Starting from scratch terrified her.
She moved. On her first day in the new apartment, she sat on the floor between unopened boxes, hugged a blanket, and cried. Oscurita peeked out from a corner of her mind:
"Total failure. You failed as a mother and as a wife. What's left for you now?"
But this time, Ailín didn't surrender.
"I'm staying with myself," she answered.
Though the pain was real, Ailín was no longer the same. Little by little, she began to rebuild. Slowly. With small, deliberate steps. She cared for her body, walking every morning. She cooked for herself with love. She began writing short reflections.
She bought a plant and placed it by the window. She watered it and spoke to it. It was a simple gesture, yet she felt that this small life mirrored her own. One day, Andrea came to visit and found her humming a song while cooking pasta just for herself.
"You look different," her friend said.
Ailín didn't answer. She just smiled, knowing that this time, the change had come from within.
And so, among the remnants of her previous life, Ailín began to rebuild herself—
Not from what she had lost...
But from what she could still create.