"We cannot run away from pain or hide it.
We must face it head-on and turn it into a source of growth."
— Daisaku Ikeda
The week after Dylan's promotion arrived with an intensity Ailín hadn't expected. Every night he came home buzzing with new stories—congratulations, office jokes, compliments about his talent and, inevitably, the occasional comment about "the wonderful wife he had."
"With a woman like that, who wouldn't work hard?" someone told him one afternoon.
Ailín noticed it.
That subtle gleam in Dylan's eyes… something more than pride.
A small addiction.
A hunger for validation.
She loved him deeply. But love was not blind.
The constant admiration was starting to become the air he breathed—
and she saw it before he did.
That night, as Dylan set down his briefcase and kept talking about his achievements, a question rose inside her. It wasn't from Oscurita.
It wasn't a dark whisper.
It was hers.
What if one day I stop shining for him?
Oscurita, sitting on the kitchen counter with her legs dangling, clicked her tongue.
"Wow. That was deep. Should I get you a tissue, or do we proceed directly to the existential crisis?"
Ailín didn't answer.
Because for the first time, it wasn't Oscurita feeding doubt.
It was her own clarity.
…
Ailín decided to focus on what she could control: her work.
There, Oscurita had far less power.
Ailin led a small but efficient team. She spoke three languages. She had a quiet, creative environment where everything felt precise and intentional. Translating scripts and supervising adaptations made her feel capable… steady… valuable.
But when she came home, that confidence dissolved.
Dylan talked about projects, competitions, negotiations—
a corporate drama full of tension and spotlight.
Her own world was…
silence, concentration, and screenwriters who attended meetings in pajamas.
Oscurita, of course, couldn't resist:
"Well, what can I say? The realm of glamour versus the kingdom of Ctrl+Z. Tough choice, boss."
Ailín gritted her teeth.
She didn't want to compete.
But the comparison still hurt.
…
When everything finally seemed stable, life handed them a new chapter: parenthood.
The idea filled her with a soft, glowing happiness. She imagined tiny clothes, lullabies, a warm home. Dylan was excited too—full of tenderness and order and plans.
When she announced her temporary resignation, her company offered remote work. It felt like a blessing: she could be a mother without giving up her vocation.
They prepared the house. The office. The baby's room.
She was radiant.
Dylan was radiant.
Everything was ready for a new life.
The baby was born healthy. Perfect.
A tiny light filling every corner of their home.
For a moment, Ailín believed things would go as smoothly as the movies promised.
From the corner of the hospital room, Oscurita crossed her legs:
"Are you sure? This smells suspiciously like a plot twist."
She didn't understand then.
But she would.
…
Motherhood was nothing like she imagined.
She didn't sleep.
She didn't rest.
She didn't always know why the baby cried.
Her body hurt.
Her emotions scattered like loose pages.
And breastfeeding…
The baby couldn't latch. Her muscles tensed, her nerves frayed, and her milk supply dwindled.
Fear, guilt, and frustration built up.
One exhausted afternoon, she whispered to the pediatrician:
"I don't think I can be a mom."
Oscurita echoed her from the shadows:
"I told you. Look how the castle collapses."
And the abyss opened.
Dylan tried to help.
Her mother did too.
But mental pain doesn't vanish with hugs.
It was a deep, echoing hole.
Oscurita strolled through the house like a dramatic Victorian actress:
"Welcome to the rebirth of the queen of tragedy."
Ailín cried silently, unsure how to find herself again.
…
With time, the baby slept better.
And so did she.
Her confidence didn't fully return, but she could breathe.
Working from home gave her structure, purpose, and independence.
She could have hired help, but she didn't.
"Perfect!" Oscurita cheered. "More emotional baggage for you—more content for me!"
Ailín sighed.
Some cracks inside her remained.
The Second Child
Three years later, their second baby arrived—
and everything was different.
She was more confident.
More mature.
She had learned she didn't need to be perfect—just human.
The new little one brought a gentle joy into the home. Dylan was learning to balance fatherhood, adulthood, and partnership. He did it well—kindly, tenderly.
But exhaustion eventually caught up with them both.
And in that quiet accumulation, their life as a couple shifted.
Not broken.
Just… unfocused.
No dramatic fights.
No crisis.
Just something subtle, which is often more dangerous.
There was affection.
There was admiration.
But there were barely any moments to breathe together, to touch without rushing, to talk about themselves instead of diapers, errands, and schedules.
Love was buried under endless lists:
"Who's bathing the baby?"
"Did you call the pediatrician?"
"Did you pay daycare?"
"Who's cooking today?"
Life became logistics.
…
For Ailín, her identity as a woman began to blur.
She no longer dressed up for herself.
She no longer looked in the mirror seeking beauty—only stains.
She no longer saw her body as her own, but as a tool.
Working from home, once a sanctuary, became just another space between responsibilities.
She loved her children—but in loving them, she had misplaced herself.
That's when Oscurita reappeared, stretching like a cat:
"See? When everything is about everyone else, you disappear faster than I expected."
"I'm fine," Ailín muttered.
"Sure you are," the shadow snorted. "Totally not a woman on the verge of crying because she hasn't felt like herself in a week."
Ailín wanted to laugh.
But she couldn't.
And Oscurita noticed.
The curious—and entirely new—thing was that her tone wasn't cruel.
It was… uncertain.
"You've noticed you don't look like you used to, right?" she asked softly. "He has definitely noticed."
Ailín pretended not to hear.
"How long has it been since you two really talked?
When was the last time you felt pretty?
Or rested?"
Emotional exhaustion was fertile ground for shadows.
Oscurita grew like a fine mist.
"You know…" she said, voice almost gentle, "you're not less of a woman for being tired."
Ailín glanced at her.
"…Are you comforting me?"
"Me?! Absolutely not," Oscurita huffed. "I'm just pointing out facts. Stylishly."
…
One day, while Ailín picked up toys, Oscurita stood in front of her, arms crossed.
"This is too much," she declared. "Even I can't keep up. Before, I only handled existential crises. Now it's crying, sleep deprivation, identity confusion—my workload went up 300%!"
Ailín let out a tired laugh.
"Are you exhausted?"
"Of course! I'm your shadow, not a machine," Oscurita complained, sitting on a pile of colorful blocks. "I don't know whether to bully you or help you!"
"I don't know what to do with myself either," Ailín whispered.
It was the first time they spoke truth without fighting.
…
That night, when both kids were finally asleep, Ailín collapsed on the sofa. Dylan sat beside her.
No speeches.
Just a soft silence.
The silence of two people who love each other—
and are tired.
"I miss you," he murmured.
Something inside Ailín cracked…
and knit itself back together.
"Me too."
They held hands.
Simply.
Two exhausted adults, trying to find each other again amid the chaos.
From the corner, Oscurita pouted:
"How corny. But… fine. Good for you."
(Not that she would ever admit she was relieved.)
Ailín didn't regain her identity in a day.
There was no magic switch.
But that night was a turning point.
A reminder that an "us" still existed.
A reminder she was more than a role.
More than a mother.
More than a wife.
More than a worker.
She was herself—with history, courage, and a pulse of her own.
And as she slowly rediscovered herself…
So did Oscurita.
Maybe less loud.
A bit more observant.
A bit more mature.
Her role was no longer to destroy—
but to accompany.
It wasn't just mockery or negativity anymore.
She watched.
She thought.
She adapted.
And though she remained sarcastic, annoying, and sometimes unbearable…
something inside her was also growing.
Something called empathy.
Ailín didn't know it yet, but her own growth was shaping her shadow.
She was changing.
And so was Oscurita.
And in the days ahead, they would both discover that growing up…
hurts a little more right before you become light.