The Shadow of Autumn Rain
Manchester was drowning in a cold November downpour. A grey shroud smothered the city, the drumming rain on rooftops wrenching Emily from her uneasy sleep. Outside, it was still dark, though the clock read nearly seven. She lay there, watching the blurred shapes of houses and trees barely visible through the rain. How could she send her daughter to school in this weather? Especially since Sophie had been coughing slightly the day before.
“Bloody freezing,” Emily whispered, curling tighter beneath the duvet.
The habit of sharing morning thoughts with her husband lingered, even though James had left three months ago. The flat was icy—central heating hadn’t kicked in yet. She pulled the duvet to her chin, willing sleep back, but it wouldn’t come. Guilt gnawed at her: she had to wake Sophie. With a sigh, she rose, filled the kettle, and began making breakfast. The fridge was nearly empty—her appetite had vanished lately, and she only bought essentials. She spread jam on toast, roused Sophie, bundled her into a warm coat, and saw her out the door. Hunting for her favourite willow-patterned scarf and failing, she crawled back under the covers.
The rain deepened the melancholy already eating at her. Three months since James had gone. At first, they’d met for divorce paperwork, then stopped. He still sent money, called Sophie, took her out. But Emily avoided speaking to him directly. She told herself she was fine: new haircut, smiling at work, joking with colleagues. But inside, everything screamed: *Nothing is fine.*
At first, she’d wanted to purge everything that reminded her of James. But his things—souvenirs from their trips, his cologne, his favourite “World’s Best Dad” mug—still sat on the shelves. Removing them hurt, yet the pain brought a strange relief. She pitied herself, and in that pity, found bitter comfort. Every time she cleaned, she stumbled over traces of him. A wooden charm—bought in York, when they’d wandered the old streets, laughing, dreaming of the future. Or the headphones—an anniversary gift. James had joked, “Women love diamonds, but these’ll keep your ears happy.”
His scent haunted her. Clothes, pillows, even her own skin held traces of his cologne. Sometimes, it whisked her back—to their family, their plans, their happiness. But the smell faded, and reality crashed down. No more family. No more dreams. Just routine: home, work, Sophie.
She avoided friends. They were the same couples they’d socialised with. Seeing them without James was unbearable—the questions, the pity, the “You two were perfect together.” She already knew how perfect they’d been. *Past tense.*
Emily was sure James had someone new. That’s why everything fell apart. Five years ago, he’d taken remote work in Aberdeen. It saved them—paid the mortgage, bought a new car. But it stole him, too. She still remembered the call. A woman, claiming to be a “well-wisher,” said, “Your husband’s been cheating. He’s got another.” James didn’t deny it. Sat on the sofa, face in his hands, silent. Then he left for his parents’.
The next day, he returned when Sophie was at school.
“Em, I can’t live without you and Sophie,” he whispered. “It was a mistake. Let’s start over. Please.”
“No, James,” she said, forcing calm. “We promised honesty. You broke that. Go.”
No shouting, no scene, almost civil. He explained things to Sophie, moved his things out, and left for another work stint. *She* was probably there—the one he’d left them for. Emily didn’t want details. The “well-wisher” kept calling, eager to elaborate, but Emily blocked her. Why torture herself? The truth was clear enough.
For months, she’d learned to live alone, proving she could manage. She never asked about James. His new life was surely fine. But his parents were different. Especially his dad, George. When shy, reserved Emily first met them, George had welcomed her like family. Gave her small tasks, joked, included her. She suspected he’d told his wife not to beg her to forgive their son. They respected her choice, still visited her and Sophie like nothing had changed.
On this rain-lashed day, the doorbell rang. Wrapped in her dressing gown, Emily answered. George stood there.
“Afternoon, love,” he smiled.
“Hello,” she flustered. “Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Don’t fuss, sit,” he said gently. “Got a story for you.”
Emily obeyed, dread rising. George rarely spoke so gravely.
“When Jamie—James—was about five, me and Margaret split,” he began. “We’re together now, remarried and all. But back then, I left. Fell for a lass at work—long hair, bonny. Thought that was it, walked out. But I couldn’t live without them. And James… he can’t live without you. There’s no other woman. He quit the job, came home, but he’s not living. Just existing. Walks past your window every night. And Em… your scarf’s in his pocket. Saw him with it—near broke me. He loves you. He’s suffering. Margaret’s beside herself, scared he’ll drink himself to—”
George stopped, sipped his tea. It hurt him to interfere, but his son was drowning.
“Right, I’ll head,” he said, standing. “Your choice, love. Forgiving betrayal… it’s hard. Near impossible. But a man who slips once learns. Guards what he’s got. James will. Sorry for meddling. And… don’t tell him I came, eh?”
Emily nodded. George left, and she lay down, heart tearing. Forgive betrayal? How? A cheat would cheat again. Or wouldn’t he? The more she thought, the more tangled it got. Living with him seemed unthinkable. But living without him ached worse.
That evening, returning from work, Emily was exhausted. The rain lashed harder, as if the sky wanted to drown the world. She changed, helped Sophie with homework. Usually, French stumped Sophie, but tonight Emily kept slipping.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Sophie frowned.
“Need some air,” Emily said suddenly.
“You’re mad! It’s pouring!”
“I’ll take an umbrella.”
By the playground, under an ancient oak, stood a man. Soaked, he leaned against the trunk, oblivious to the downpour. In his hand, a silk scarf with a willow pattern. His car idled nearby, but he stayed, as if punishing himself with the cold.
“James!” Emily called.
He startled, thinking he’d imagined it.
“James!”
He turned. Emily stood there, drenched, umbrella in hand. All the words he’d prepared vanished.
“Jamie, come home,” she said softly. “You’ll catch your death.”
“I… just brought your scarf,” he mumbled. “Got mixed with my things—”
“My scarf? Glad it’s found,” she met his eyes. “I’ve decided, James. Let’s try again.”
He couldn’t apologise properly, but his gaze said enough. Warmth flooded Emily’s chest.
“I love you, Em. And Sophie. Thank you,” he whispered.
Maybe the scarf could be their fresh start. Maybe the autumn rain would wash the hurt away, leaving room for hope.
