Love Ends in the Rain

At ten years old, I watched my mom jump to her death in a rainstorm.

That same night, my dad brought home a glamorous woman and her nine-year-old daughter.

I had feared and hated rainy days since then.

My husband once helped me face that childhood trauma, staying by my side through every storm and promising, "Don't worry, Lena, you'll never face your fears alone."

But when I refused to pick up his new assistant, he abandoned me on a highway in pouring rain, saying, "Marie is your sister, and you left her out there? Walk home!"

That night, the rain never stopped, and I walked thirteen hours along a dark, endless road.

That was when I decided I was done with him.

Rain poured relentlessly, and I stared at my phone, irritated by Terence's last text.

[I'm busy today. Can't be there with you. Head home and help me pick someone up at the service area.]

I turned off the screen as memories of those rainy days flooded my mind.

When I was ten, my mom leapt from the 18th floor, her body broken and alone in the rain.

Blood and tears flowed from her eyes.

My dad glanced at her, cursed under his breath, and pulled me away.

That same night, two strangers invaded our home.

After we married, Terence Salinas was my anchor during those stormy nights when nightmares gripped me.

He'd cancel meetings and skip work, saying, "Work is not more important than you. I'd choose you a million times over."

But at some point, those words faded, and I couldn't recall when he stopped putting me first.

The car stopped at the highway service area. When the door opened, I froze.

Marie Schroeder stood there, umbrella in hand, flashing a smug smile. "Hey, Lena, long time no see. Terence told you to give me a ride, right?"

"Drive," I ordered.

The driver hesitated. "But Mr. Salinas..."

"I said drive!" I turned away, fighting the rising nausea inside me.

As the car merged back onto the highway, Terence called. "Why did you leave Marie behind?"

"I can't be in the same car as her," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"Stop being so dramatic. She is your sister. How could you ditch her in this rain? Can't you see how bad it is?" he sulked.

My hands clenched, my heart pounding. Sister? The night my mom's body was still warm in the hospital, Marie's mother waltzed into our house with her, taking over like they owned it.

"Burn that ugly bedspread," Peggy Hodge had demanded. "This closet is tacky. Get a new one."

Lester Schroeder trailed her, nodding eagerly.

Marie, clutching a doll, stood in my room and declared, "This is so pretty. It's mine now."

I was banished to the storage room.

"Terence," I said coldly, "I don't have a sister. My mom only had one kid—me."

He snapped back, "Your mom's been gone for years. Stop dragging her into this. Marie is trying to make peace, and you're acting like a child."

His words struck a raw nerve, and tears stung my eyes.

"Last chance," he growled. "Let Marie in the car."

"No," I refused firmly.

"Fine! If you're gonna throw a fit, get out and walk."

He ordered the driver to pull over and get me out.

The car then turned back for Marie.

Rain and wind lashed at me as I stood on the highway shoulder, shivering without an umbrella. Tears mixed with bitter rainwater as I trudged along the dark road.

My heart broke, piece by piece, dissolving into pain.

After 13 hours of walking, I saw Terence for who he truly was.

I didn't need a husband like that.