The Rain Was to Blame for Everything

“You can’t just keep running, Mike,” her voice cut through the static of the radio and the steady percussion of the rain on the windshield. Even though she wasn’t in the car with me, her words echoed so clearly in my mind that for a moment, I actually glanced at the passenger seat. Empty, of course. Just my own conscience taking on the voice of my wife again. I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, the engine idling in the dim, orange glow of a streetlight. It was 7:43 PM in early April, and the city was drowning in rain so fine it looked like mist, but it felt like the world was ending.

I’d been driving for over an hour, up and down the familiar streets of Cincinnati, burning gas as if distance could put space between me and the argument I’d left simmering back home. Every intersection was red; every street crowded with brake lights blurred by the downpour. I didn’t even know where I was going anymore—maybe just away.

Home had stopped feeling safe months ago. Ever since I lost my job at the insurance agency—”downsizing,” they’d said, as if that word could soften the blow—things with Lauren had gotten brittle. She tried to hide her disappointment, but it lived in the way she sighed when she thought I wasn’t listening, in the way she triple-checked the grocery bill. And our son, Ethan, only twelve, had started staying over at his friend’s house more often, like he could sense the tension thickening in our house.

The rain made the city look like a memory. Storefronts smeared into watercolor; headlights became ghostly streaks. I passed the old movie theater where Lauren and I had our first date, back when we were both so sure life would be easy. The marquee now read: “CLOSED FOR RENOVATION.” I snorted. Weren’t we all?

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat, lighting up with Lauren’s name. I stared at it, feeling my chest tighten.

“Are you coming home?” the text read.

I typed and deleted three responses before tossing the phone back down. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain that the rain wasn’t just outside—it was inside me, too. Nothing could dry out the cold, wet ache in my chest.

I remembered the way Lauren looked at me this morning, her jaw clenched as she tried to be patient. “You can’t just keep pretending everything’s fine. You need to do something, Mike. For yourself. For us.”

“What do you want me to do?” I’d snapped, harsher than I meant.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “I want you to stop hiding. I want my husband back.”

I punched the steering wheel now, hating how her words stung more than the rain. The truth was, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be anymore. The man she married was confident, ambitious. Now I was just… lost.

My mom used to say that nothing good ever happens after dark when it’s raining. As a kid, I’d believed her. Now, I wondered if she was right.

The radio sputtered out a country song about heartbreak. I turned it off. Silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. I watched the rain run in rivulets down the glass, blurring the lines between inside and out.

A horn blared behind me. The light was green. I jerked forward, tires splashing through puddles. I found myself heading toward the river, the part of town where the city’s lights reflected in the black water like a thousand broken promises.

I pulled over near a park, where swings creaked in the wind and puddles swallowed the sidewalk. I killed the engine, letting the silence settle.

My phone buzzed again. It was Ethan this time: “Can you pick me up from Zach’s? Mom said you were out.”

My heart twisted. No matter how much I tried to escape, I couldn’t outrun being a father. Or a husband. I texted back: “On my way.”

Driving over, the storm seemed to ease a little, but the damage was done. My thoughts raced: How do I show Ethan that being a man isn’t about never failing, but about getting back up? How do I tell Lauren I’m scared too?

Ethan climbed into the car, rainwater dripping from his hoodie. He didn’t say much, just plugged in his headphones. But I caught the way he glanced at me, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or answers I didn’t have.

Back home, Lauren met us at the door. Her eyes were red, but she hugged Ethan tight, then looked at me. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The house was quiet except for the drip-drip of rain from our coats onto the floor.

“I know you’re hurting,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re not alone, Mike.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to reach across the gap that had grown between us and hold on. But fear still held me back.

That night, after Ethan went to bed, Lauren sat beside me on the couch. “Do you remember that time we got caught in the rain at the county fair?” she asked, a sad smile on her lips. “We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. You said, ‘Rain’s just water, babe. Doesn’t mean the fun stops.’”

I swallowed hard. “Feels different now.”

She took my hand. “It doesn’t have to.”

The storm outside finally slowed to a gentle patter. We sat in silence, listening to the rain, not sure what tomorrow would bring. But for the first time in months, I let myself hope that maybe, with enough honesty and time, we could find our way back to each other.

I keep thinking: If the rain hadn’t come, would I have kept running? Or was it the storm that finally forced me to stop and face what I was really afraid of? What do you do when the thing you’re running from is yourself?