"Ruin is the road to transformation."
— Elizabeth Gilbert
In the years that followed, our house—yes, ours, because I lived there just as much as they did, even though no one ever officially invited me—was a charming kind of chaos: toys buried between sofa cushions, fossilized snacks inside forgotten backpacks, doors opening and slamming, laughter chasing itself down the hallways.
And Ailín… Ailín was tired, messy, radiant.
And I—Oscurita—was quiet.
Yes. QUIET.
The greatest professional humiliation an existential shadow could suffer.
Because when my human is fine, I lose my entire purpose.
No drama.
No spiraling thoughts.
No delicious existential catastrophes.
And what am I supposed to do then?
Practice mindfulness?
Absolutely not.
But time, oh, that silent villain, decided to keep moving without consulting me.
The children grew up.
Adolescence arrived like an entitled guest:
slamming doors, grunting answers, leaving dishes in their wake, disappearing into bedrooms.
Ailín would gently knock.
"Everything okay, sweetheart?"
"Mmh."
End scene.
Truly, Shakespeare would've wept.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, fully satisfied with the performance:
"I told you this was going to happen. Humans come with an emotional expiration date. BOOM—independence."
She didn't answer me.
She had learned to ignore me… or so she naïvely believed.
But I heard the thought beating inside her chest:
I don't want them to leave so soon.
And that's when I knew:
The real show was about to begin.
…
One day, the eldest announced he'd be studying far away.
Far enough that Ailín felt the universe was yanking out one of her ribs.
She smiled.
She hugged him.
She congratulated him.
She cried alone.
Dylan cried too, in his own dignified-tree-trunk way.
I, meanwhile, shook an imaginary popcorn bucket.
"This is going to hurt, Ailín. A lot. And I'll be right here narrating every detail."
And yes—oh yes—it hurt.
On the day of the farewell, as the car drove away with her first baby-now-adult, Ailín felt something loosen… something tighten… and something simply vanish.
"Welcome to the Empty Nest—Deluxe Edition," I announced, full of grace.
But that was just the appetizer.
The second child took flight soon after.
And once he left…
the house became so silent that even I, the ominous shadow, cleared my throat in discomfort.
Two toothbrushes left in the bathroom.
Three chairs unused at the table.
An echo where life used to live.
My voice returned with theatrical glory:
"You're alone."
She didn't deny it.
For the first time in years…
my presence didn't irritate her.
It comforted her.
Which, frankly, terrified me a little.
…
Ailín's sadness didn't begin with the empty nest.
No.
That just turned on the spotlight.
The crack had been there—quiet, patient—long before.
Dylan, a good man but an increasingly absent one, had started fading into his job:
Endless meetings.
Late-night video calls.
Female coworkers Ailín tried very hard not to overthink.
Trips that were "absolutely essential."
Problems that "only he" could solve.
"They need me," he would say.
And Ailín would nod.
But I heard her real thoughts:
We need you too.
But you're never here.
Naturally, I seized the opportunity like the seasoned professional I am.
"You're shrinking, Ailín. Look how tiny you're becoming while he grows for everyone else."
She murmured "shut up," lips pressed tight.
But truth has a way of sticking—especially when I'm the one delivering it.
…
And so I grew.
A lot.
Every doubt fed me.
Every insecurity fattened me.
Every awkward silence became fertilizer for my chaos.
Some of my greatest hits during this era:
"You're not enough anymore."
"Your whole life went into taking care of others."
"He's out there… you're still here."
"Vivian has time for him, at least."
"And the worst part? You know this already."
Ah yes.
Vivian.
The former cheer captain turned brilliant lawyer, now orbiting Dylan like the sun had personally assigned her to him.
Hours together.
Frequent messages.
Private meetings.
Jealous?
No.
Ailín wasn't jealous.
Until suddenly… she was.
And of course, I was there, fanning the flames:
"Sister… if I had a physical body, I'd be putting on sunscreen so we could panic together under the same UV rays."
She ignored me—but that little twitch in her temple?
Oh, she heard me.
…
Then came the night.
Ailín was washing a cup.
A simple, harmless cup.
And suddenly…
she froze.
Looked out the window.
Silence outside.
A deeper silence inside.
The air thickened.
Tense.
Ready to shatter.
She went upstairs.
Closed the door.
Sat on the bed…
And broke.
She cried for:
every swallowed word,
every buried desire,
every ignored fear,
every night she waited for Dylan to notice her,
every version of herself she'd lost over the years.
I approached her, voice low—almost gentle:
"See? I always knew. Without the kids, without the mom-role, without Dylan… what's left of you?"
And she whispered:
"I don't know who I am anymore."
That sound…
That confession…
Struck me like lightning.
I, the queen of internal chaos, felt something resembling…
Concern.
A disgusting sensation. 0/10. Do not recommend.
She cried herself to sleep, clutching a pillow.
And I watched.
And for the first time ever…
I didn't know what to do.
…
At dawn, she woke swollen, drained…
but with a new spark.
A rebellious one.
She wanted to try—one last time—to save what little remained of their relationship.
She proposed a weekend getaway.
Just the two of them, like when they were dating.
Dylan smiled.
Said yes.
Seemed sincere.
I snorted.
But on the day of the trip…
The phone rang.
Urgent meeting.
Huge problem.
And as always:
"Only I can solve it."
He canceled.
And right then…
I saw something new in her:
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She didn't collapse externally.
But inside—
Something beautiful died.
A light I actually liked.
"I told you," I whispered. "If he wanted to, he'd be here."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time…
my words didn't drag her down.
They lifted her.
Because she finally understood:
The loneliness didn't begin when the children left.
It began long before—
while Dylan was still standing there.
…
The following days were cold, sharp, almost clinical.
Long silences.
Conversations cut short.
Eyes avoiding each other.
The kind of coexistence that doesn't explode—
it erodes.
Dylan began with his signature anti-poetry:
"You have too much free time."
"I don't see you motivated."
"Can't you do something productive?"
I leapt dramatically—emotionally, of course.
"Did you hear that, Ailín?! Premium confirmation of your darkest fears. Delicious. Nutritious. Soul food—if I had a soul."
She pressed her lips together.
Breathed deep.
But she didn't crumble like before.
And that's when I felt it.
A shift.
A tension.
A spark.
Ailín wasn't sinking.
Not this time.
She was filling up—
not with sadness,
but with limit.
The kind of limit that ignites a fire nothing—not even me—can extinguish.
One night, as she lay awake, I whispered:
"You're fading…"
She opened her eyes.
Dark. Bright. Steady.
"I know," she said.
Simple.
Clear.
Sure.
After that…
she never spoke to me again.
But I stayed.
Watching.
Feeling something inside her solidify…
and something inside me shrink.
Because for the first time in our entire melodramatic history, I understood something I absolutely did NOT want to understand:
Ailín was changing—
and I did not know my place
in the woman she was becoming.
A woman who no longer needed me to push her into the abyss.
A woman who might finally be learning
to push back.
And that possibility, that tiny, terrifying possibility,
scared me more than all her breakdowns combined.
Because when a woman completely falls apart…
what comes next
is rebirth.
And I—shadow, chaos, sarcasm, self-sabotage expert—
had no idea
who I would be
in her new light.