The city was drenched in a cold November downpour. Manchester lay shrouded beneath a grey veil, the drumming of rain on rooftops jolting Emily from her restless sleep. Outside, it was pitch black despite the clock nearing seven in the morning. She lay there, staring at the blurred outlines of houses and trees barely visible through the rain. How could she send her daughter off to school in weather like this? Especially since Sophie had been coughing just the day before.
“Bloody freezing…” Emily muttered, curling tighter under 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 covers up to her chin, willing sleep to return, but it wouldn’t come. Guilt gnawed at her: Sophie needed waking. With a sigh, she got up, put the kettle on, and began fixing breakfast. The fridge was nearly empty—her appetite had vanished lately, and she only bought the essentials. She spread jam on toast, roused Sophie, bundled her into a thick coat, and saw her out the door. Hunting for her favourite scarf, the one with the willow pattern, she couldn’t find it and crawled back under the blankets.
The rain deepened the melancholy already weighing on her. Three months since James had gone. At first, they’d met to settle divorce matters, but then even those stopped. He sent money for Sophie without fail, called her, took her out—but Emily avoided speaking to him directly. She told herself she was fine: changed her hair, smiled at work, bantered with colleagues. But inside, everything screamed: *Nothing’s fine.*
At first, she’d wanted to purge every reminder of James. Yet his things—souvenirs from their trips, his cologne, his *World’s Best Dad* mug—still sat on the shelves. Removing them hurt, but the pain brought a strange relief. She pitied herself, and in that pity found bitter comfort. Every time she tidied, she stumbled across something tied to him. There was the wooden charm—bought in York as they wandered the old streets, laughing and dreaming of the future. And the headphones—a Mother’s Day gift. James had joked, *”Women love with their ears, and ears love diamonds. No diamonds, so here’s something to keep them happy.”*
His scent haunted her. Clothes, pillows, even her own belongings carried traces of his cologne. In those moments, she slipped back into the past—their family, their dreams, their happiness. But the smell faded, and reality crashed over her anew. No more family. No more plans. Just routine: home, work, Sophie.
She avoided friends. They were the same people she and James had socialised with. Seeing them without him was unbearable—the questions, the pitying looks, the *”You two were perfect together”* remarks. She didn’t need reminding. They *had* been perfect. But that was over.
Emily was sure James had someone new. That’s why everything fell apart. Five years ago, he’d taken a contract job up north. It saved them—paid off the mortgage, bought a new car. But it also stole him away. She still remembered *that* call. An anonymous woman, a *”well-wisher,”* saying, *”Your husband’s been cheating. He’s got another woman.”* James didn’t deny it. He sat on the sofa, head 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 Soph,” he said quietly. “It was a mistake. Let’s start over. Please.”
“No, James,” she replied, forcing calm. “We promised honesty. You broke that. Go.”
No shouting, no scenes—just quiet finality. He explained everything to Sophie, moved his things out, and left for another contract. *She* was probably there—the one he’d left them for. Emily didn’t want details. The “well-wisher” kept calling, eager to share more, but Emily blocked her. What good would it do? The truth was clear enough.
Four months she’d spent learning to live alone, convincing herself she’d manage. She never asked about James. He was likely happy with his new love. But her in-laws were surprising. Especially her father-in-law, George. When shy, reserved Emily first met them, he’d welcomed her like family. Gave her simple tasks to help her settle, cracked jokes, drew her into conversations. She suspected he’d told his wife not to beg her to forgive their son. They respected her choice and still treated her and Sophie no differently.
On this rain-lashed day, with Manchester drowning in grey, the doorbell rang. Wrapped in her dressing gown, Emily opened it. George stood on the doorstep.
“Morning, love,” he smiled.
“Hello,” she faltered. “Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Don’t fuss, sit,” he said gently. “Got something to tell you.”
Emily sat, unease prickling. George was rarely this serious.
“When Jim—James—was about five, Nora and I split,” he began. “Aye, we’re together now, even renewed our vows later. But back then, I walked out. Fell for someone—a lass from work, pretty as anything. Thought that was it, left my family. But I couldn’t live without them. And James… he can’t live without you two. There’s no other woman. He quit that job, came home to us, but he’s miserable. Walks past your flat every night. And your scarf’s in his pocket, Em. Saw it myself—near broke my heart. He loves you, he’s suffering. And Nora’s worried sick he’ll turn to the drink…”
George trailed off, sipped his tea, discomfort plain. He wasn’t one to meddle, but this was his son.
“Right, I’ll go,” he said, standing. “Your choice. Forgiving betrayal… it’s hard. Near impossible. But a man who messes up once learns. Guards his family tighter after. James will. Sorry for sticking my nose in. And… don’t tell him I came, eh?”
Emily nodded. George left, and she lay down, heart splitting. Forgive betrayal? How? Once a cheat, always a cheat. Or was it? The more she thought, the more tangled it became. Living with him again seemed unthinkable. Yet the ache without him was unbearable.
Late that night, back from work, exhaustion weighed on her. The rain lashed harder, as if the sky meant to punish them all. She changed, helped Sophie with homework. Normally, French was Sophie’s struggle, but tonight she noticed her mum’s distraction.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Sophie frowned. “You’re not yourself.”
“Need some air,” Emily said suddenly.
“You’re joking? It’s pouring!”
“I’ll take an umbrella.”
By the playground, under an old oak, stood a man. Soaked through, he leaned against the trunk, oblivious to the downpour. In his hand, he clutched a silk scarf with a willow pattern. His car was parked nearby, but he stayed, as if punishing himself with the wet and cold.
“James!” Emily called.
He startled, thinking he’d imagined it.
“James!”
He turned. There stood Emily, drenched, umbrella in hand. Every rehearsed word fled.
“Jim, come home,” she said softly. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
“I… just… brought your scarf,” he mumbled. “Must’ve got mixed with my things—”
“The scarf? Glad it’s found,” she met his eyes. “I’ve decided, James. Let’s try again.”
He didn’t know how to apologise, but his gaze said enough. Warmth flooded Emily’s chest.
“I love you, Em. And Soph. Thank you,” he whispered.
Let that scarf be their fresh start. Let the autumn rain wash away the past, leaving room for hope.
