**Under the Rain of Loneliness**
My ex-wife, Eleanor, began acting strangely a year ago. Out of nowhere, she started picking fights—accusing me of everything from leaving dishes unwashed to socks on the floor, to forgetting her endless reminders. She claimed she was tired of cleaning up after me. Worst of all, she spat that I couldn’t even afford a new car. I suspected it wasn’t about me. The sudden gym membership, the new wardrobe—none of it was for my sake. And then she left me for another man.
A year passed. One morning, I was jolted awake by the doorbell. I threw on my dressing gown, shuffled down the hall, and froze when I saw her standing there.
A heavy grey cloud loomed over the clear sky, like an invisible hand smearing the world in gloom. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as I drove through the quiet streets of an old market town by the Thames. The storm grew fiercer, the wind howling louder. Inside the car, it was warm, the radio humming softly, but beyond the glass, a cold, aching loneliness settled in my chest.
The streets were empty, only the occasional car speeding past. How many laps had I done around town? I couldn’t bear being home, so my feet had carried me to the car. Driving helped me think, piecing my life together like a puzzle missing its most important piece. I turned down a narrow lane, putting distance between myself and the house that still echoed with the past.
A week ago, Eleanor had returned. Her arrival stirred old wounds, dredged up the hurt. She must have thought I’d melt at her tears, forgive the betrayal, forget the insults. When she left, she’d called me a failure, a worthless man. Could you forget that?
A year earlier, she’d blown up over nothing. Screamed about the mess, about me never listening, about how I couldn’t give her the life she wanted. “Four years without a holiday abroad! Another summer without the seaside!” she’d hissed. “I’m leaving you for someone who can give me all that.” Her sudden gym visits, her new outfits—none of it had been for me. At home, she’d shuffled around in an old dressing gown, bare-faced; outside, she sparkled. I didn’t beg her to stay. The pain nearly broke me, but I survived. I drank with mates, then pulled myself together.
At work, the women perked up when they heard I was single. They didn’t care about fancy gifts or foreign trips—just having a decent bloke around. And I was a decent catch: in my prime, a flat, a car, no alimony. But none of them made my heart stir. I wasn’t opposed to something new, but the spark wasn’t there. Even my friends drifted—their wives worried I’d tempt their husbands into trouble. I’d visit, then return to an empty flat where no one waited.
Eleanor and I had no children. I’d never stressed over it—not everyone has them right away. She’d even been checked out; the doctors said she was fine, just needed time. But when we divorced, she flung it in my face: *”Useless. Couldn’t even pick a wife who could give you kids.”* That cut deeper than anything. Still, if she’d stayed, I’d have forgiven her. But she walked away.
Then, a year later, that doorbell. There she stood, tears in her eyes, begging for forgiveness. *”I made a mistake. I love you.”* I told her I’d forgiven, but I’d never forget. How could I take her back when she’d been with another man, only returning because *he* left her? *”Would you have taken me back if it were the other way round?”* I asked. Silence. I told her to pack her things and disappear. *”I’ve got nowhere to go,”* she whispered. *”What about your mum’s in Devon?”* I said.
That night, like today, I drove in circles until exhaustion won. I decided: if she was home when I returned, I’d try again. I was used to her, knew her. But the flat was empty. And I wasn’t upset. Deep down, I knew—she’d come back out of desperation, and the moment someone better appeared, she’d vanish again. How could I ever trust her?
The rain worsened, the wipers struggling against the downpour. I drove, arguing silently with myself. One more lap, a stop at the petrol station, then home. At a red light, I spotted a woman beneath a tree. The spring leaves did nothing to shield her—she was soaked, staring blankly ahead. The light changed, but she didn’t move. Waiting for someone? Or, like me once, unsure where to go?
I drove past, then reversed. Lowered the window. *”Need a lift?”* She didn’t react. *”I can’t stay here long,”* I pressed. Slowly, she turned. Rain or tears on her face? She shuffled over and slid into the passenger seat. Her lips trembled—no smile came. *”You’ll ruin the upholstery,”* I thought, flicking on the seat warmer.
She brushed wet hair from her face, tugging her soaked dress over her knees. *”Tissues in the glovebox,”* I said, pulling away. She wiped her face. We drove in silence. *”Where to?”* I finally asked. *”Nowhere,”* she murmured. There was a quiet hopelessness in her voice. *”Well, this is awkward,”* I thought. *”The train station, then,”* she added. *”Running from your husband? Off to your mum’s? Where’s your luggage?”* Her puzzled look made me pause. *”Husband left two years ago. Mum’s gone—her heart, six months after he walked out. 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 fell quiet, uneasy. *”Your daughter—did she recover?”* Her face crumpled. *”No. I sold the flat, paid for treatment in Switzerland. But it didn’t save her. There was nothing I could do.”* Her eyes were dry, but endless sorrow lived there. *”How old was she?”* *”Thirteen tomorrow. I bought tickets to the seaside—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to keep fighting.”* *”Do you still have them?”* *”Yes. For the morning.”* What could I say? I had everything—home, job, health. She’d lost her child, her home, everyone. How did she even breathe?
*”No kids for me,”* I admitted. *”Ex-wife got pregnant by someone else when we were young. Had an abortion. Threw it in my face during the divorce. Called me a failure, left for a rich bloke.”* *”Fancy a coffee?”* I gestured to the petrol station. *”I’m starving, and you could warm up.”* She shrugged.
In the café, two coffees and a plate of buns between us, a man at the next table stared. I shifted to block his view. *”Where’s the loo?”* she asked. When she returned, her hair was dry—fluffy, dark. Early thirties, slim, delicate features. The rain had aged her. *”My daughter loved crisps,”* she said suddenly. *”When Mia stopped eating them, I knew it was over.”* *”How do you survive that?”* The words escaped me. *”I don’t have a heart anymore. Just emptiness.”* She pressed a hand to her chest.
Back in the car, she smelled of rain and flowers. Eleanor always drenched herself in sickly perfume that made my head spin. This woman was silent, barely there. *”The vicar said her soul would stay near for forty days,”* she murmured. *”I feel Mia sometimes. Her breath. She calls to me in dreams. Do you think she’ll come with me? She loved the sea.”* I pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. *”But how will you manage? No belongings.”* *”I’ll buy what I need. That doesn’t matter.”* *”The pain won’t leave you. Need money? I can help.”* *”No, thank you.”* For the first time, she held my gaze.
The station loomed ahead. *”I’m Oliver. You?”* *”Charlotte. Mum called me Lottie.”* I parked. *”Can’t stay long. Sure about this?”* *”There’s a rest area—like a hotel. Go there, sleep properly. Here.”* I pressed notes into her hand. *”I have enough,”* she protested. *”You’ll need funds there. Pay me back. Gives me a reason to wait.”* She hesitated, then took it. *”Thank you.”* She vanished into the station.
The rain stopped, clouds parting. I leaned back, eyes closed. Images of Lottie flickered: drenched under the tree, hiding her knees in the car, that faint smile in theThe engine hummed softly as I glanced at her sleeping face and wondered if, for the first time in years, I wasn’t alone.
