**Under the Lonely Rain**
My wife, Charlotte, started acting strange. Out of nowhere, she’d pick fights—yelling about unwashed dishes, socks on the floor, or how I never remembered her requests. She was tired of cleaning up after me, she said. Worst of all, I couldn’t afford a new car. Something felt off. Suddenly, she was dolling herself up, hitting the gym, and buying new clothes—none of it for me. Then she left me for another man.
A year passed. One morning, a knock at the door startled me awake. I threw on my dressing gown, shuffled down the hall, and froze. There she stood—eyes pleading, soaked in regret.
—
A heavy grey cloud crept across the sky, smothering the sun like a damp blanket. Rain tapped against the windscreen as I drove through the old market town along the Thames. The storm grew fiercer, the wind howling like a restless ghost. Inside the car, the heater hummed and the radio played softly, but outside, the world was cold and empty.
The streets were deserted, save for the occasional car speeding past. How many laps had I done? Home felt suffocating, so I’d wandered to the car. Driving helped me think, sorting through my life like a puzzle with missing pieces. I turned onto a narrow lane, putting distance between me and the house that still echoed with memories.
A week ago, Charlotte had shown up unannounced, reopening old wounds with her tears and apologies. She’d expected me to melt, to forget the insults, the betrayal. When she left, she’d called me worthless—a failure who couldn’t even father a child. Some wounds never heal.
—
Last year, she’d started fights over nothing—shouting about mess, broken promises, how I couldn’t give her the life she wanted. *”Five years without a holiday abroad! Another summer stuck here!”* she’d spat. *”I’m leaving for someone who can.”* Her sudden gym sessions and new clothes weren’t for me. At home, she wore tattered pyjamas; outside, she glowed. I didn’t stop her. The pain was brutal, but I endured it. Drank with mates for a week, then pulled myself together. Time numbed it.
At work, women perked up when they heard I was single. They didn’t care about fancy gifts or trips—just having a man around. And I was a catch: fit, stable, no alimony. But none sparked anything. Friends drifted too—their wives feared I’d lead their husbands astray. I’d visit, then return to an empty flat where no one waited.
We’d never had kids. I hadn’t worried—these things take time. Charlotte even got checked; doctors said she was fine. But during the divorce, she hissed, *”You’re useless. Even your wife can’t give you a child.”* That cut deepest. Still, if she’d stayed, I’d have forgiven her. But she left.
—
Then came that knock a year later. Charlotte stood there, tear-streaked, begging for another chance. *”I made a mistake. I love you.”* I told her I’d forgiven but couldn’t forget. How could I take back someone who’d tossed me aside? *”Would you take me back if I’d left you?”* I asked. Silence. I sent her away, telling her to collect her things and disappear. *”I’ve nowhere to go,”* she whispered. *”What about your mum’s in Cornwall?”* I snapped.
I drove in circles that night, just like today, until exhaustion won. If she was home, maybe we’d try again. I knew her, after all. But the flat was empty. Relief washed over me. It wouldn’t have worked. She came back out of desperation, not love. She’d have left again. How could I ever trust her?
—
The rain worsened, wipers struggling against the downpour. I drove, lost in thought. One more lap, then petrol, then home. At a traffic light, I spotted a woman beneath a tree, drenched, staring blankly. The light turned green, but she didn’t move. Waiting? Or lost, like I’d once been?
I drove past, then reversed. *”Need a lift?”* I called through the open window. She barely stirred. *”Can’t stay here long,”* I pressed. Slowly, she approached and slid in. Her lips trembled—no smile came. The seat would be soaked, but I turned on the heated seats anyway.
She smoothed her damp hair, tugging her dress over her knees. *”Tissues in the glovebox,”* I said, pulling away. She wiped her face. Silence. *”Where to?”* I finally asked. *”Nowhere,”* she murmured. Her voice was soft, hollow. *”Great,”* I thought. Then, *”The station, actually.”* *”Running from your husband? Off to your mum’s? Where’s your luggage?”* Her startled look made me pause. *”Husband left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart attack, six months after. Friends vanished when I asked for money. Now they call, but they’re scared I’ll ask again. Not that I need it now.”*
I hesitated. *”Daughter got better?”* I guessed. *”No. Sold my flat for treatment in Switzerland. Didn’t save her. I couldn’t do anything.”* Her eyes were dry, but haunted. *”How old?”* *”Thirteen tomorrow. Bought tickets to the seaside—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to fight.”* *”Got them with you?”* *”Yes. Morning train.”* I said nothing. What was there to say? I had a home, a job, health. She’d lost everything. How did she even keep breathing?
*”No kids myself,”* I admitted. *”Ex-wife got pregnant by someone else, aborted it. Threw it in my face during the divorce. Called me a failure, left for someone richer.”* *”Fancy coffee?”* I offered, spotting a petrol station. *”I’m starving. You could use warming up.”* She shrugged.
—
In the café, two coffees and pastries between us, a man nearby ogled her. I shifted to block his view. *”Toilets?”* she asked. I nodded toward the sign. When she returned, her hair was fluffed dry, dark and soft. Early thirties, delicate features. The rain had aged her. *”My Lily loved crisps,”* she said suddenly. *”When she stopped eating them, I knew.”* *”How’d you survive that?”* slipped out. *”No heart left. Just an empty space,”* she pressed a hand to her chest.
Back in the car, she smelled of rain and something floral—unlike Charlotte’s cloying perfume. She sat quietly, barely there. *”The vicar said souls stay near for forty days,”* she murmured. *”I feel Lily’s breath sometimes. She calls to me in dreams. D’you think she’ll come with me? She wanted to see the sea so badly.”* I pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. *”But where will you stay? No luggage.”* *”I’ll buy things. Doesn’t matter.”* *”You’ll have to come back. The pain follows. Need money? I’ve got some.”* *”No, thank you,”* she finally met my gaze.
The station loomed ahead. *”I’m Henry. You?”* *”Emily. My mum called me Em.”* I parked. *”Can’t stay here long. Sure you’re going?”* *”There’s a lounge—like a hotel. Sleep there. Here.”* I offered cash. *”I’m fine,”* she recoiled. *”You’ll need funds there. Take it. Pay me back. Gives me a reason to wait.”* I pressed the notes into her hand. *”Thank you,”* she whispered, vanishing into the station.
—
The rain stopped, clouds parting. I leaned back, eyes closed. Em’s face flickered in my mind—under the tree, in the car, that fleeting smile. Felt like I’d known her years. Then a tap on the window startled me awake. She stood there, then slid in. *”Changed your mind?”* I asked. *”You didn’t give me your number. How else would I return the money?”* Her smile warmed her face—and something in my chest stirred. *”You’re right. Can’t outrun grief. The sea without Lily… it’s not the same.”* I started the engine. Em dozed against the window as I pulled into a rest stop.
Cars raced by, ferrying people home with gifts and laughter. But in my car, two strangers slept—nowhere to rush, no one waiting. Two lonelinesses, one fragile hope between them.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes the storm washes in what the calm couldn’t hold.
