The Suitcase and the Rain

Isla’s POV

I walked out of the hospital without once looking back. No tears fell from my eyes. There was no way I could cry over a scumbag. I felt no hesitation whatsoever and I offered no apologies.

He had chosen her. That much was clear. I had clung to silence for too long, and now it had become my own noose. But no more. I was done waiting to be loved. Done waiting to matter. Heck, I was done being an afterthought, a spare tyre. The only thing I had left now was Sophie, my adorable daughter, and the promise I silently made to her as I stepped into the unknown: I will not let you grow up thinking this is love.

I reached the sidewalk and raised my hand to hail a cab. It did not stop. Another passed again. I let out a self deprecating chuckle. "Even the universe is reprimanding me for my foolishness," I thought. A third tried to stop, but someone else stole it. Then I opened my purse and froze. No wallet. No cards. No cash. Just crushed receipts and old Band-Aids.

My stomach twisted with the cruel irony of it all. The wife. The mother. The woman who gave up everything for her family, standing on the curb like a discarded ghost, empty-handed in more ways than one. So I walked. Because I knew that my daughter was alone at home.

I had left her with Mrs Blake but since she came to the hospital, I knew that my daughter, a three year old toddler, was left to fend for herself! I hastened my pace. Heels blistering. Shoulders slumped. I passed busy cafes, blinking neon signs, and happy couples under umbrellas. I found a bench in a nearby park and sat, surrounded by pigeons and cigarette smoke. The sky turned the color of bruises. I did not care. I just needed to breathe.

At some point, I must have drifted into sleep. A sharp breeze woke me. My phone buzzed weakly in my pocket, 10% battery. I trudged the last blocks to the house I no longer felt welcome in. As soon as I reached the front porch, I heard it. Laughter. Warm, loud, and alive. From my dining room.

I blinked hard and pressed my hand to the door, uncertain. Then I heard it again, her voice. Viola. Sickly sweet, syrupy, and now familiar. I opened the door and paused in the hallway. Sophie's toys were still scattered where she left them. But her giggles were absent. I stepped into the dining room and froze.

There she was. Viola. Sitting in my chair. Her coat draped over the back like she owned the place. Mrs. Blake, the ever-ice queen, sat beside her, pouring juice like it was a celebration. Nathaniel leaned in, hanging onto Viola’s every word as she stroked her pregnant stomach like it was a trophy.

And then I saw Sophie, tugging on Mrs. Blake’s sleeve, her tiny voice pleading. “Grandma, I’m hungry.” No one heard her. No one turned. My baby. My sweet, bright-eyed baby, forgotten like furniture. She saw me and rushed into my arms. Then she whispered weakly, "Mommy, I am hungry." That did it. I saw red.

I stormed into the room, rage bubbling beneath my skin. “What the hell is going on?” Nathaniel looked up, annoyed. “Isla. Viola is pregnant. She needs care.” I blinked. “So you brought her here? Into my home? While your daughter is starving in the next room?”

Viola smiled sweetly, like she had won. “Oh relax. I’m not here to stay. Just until I feel stronger.” She glanced at Sophie. “She is adorable, by the way. Spitting image of you.” Mrs. Blake stood, fixing her cold, judgmental eyes on me. “You need to behave, Isla. Don’t make a scene in front of guests.”

“Guests?” I hissed. “She is not a guest. She is your son’s mistress. And you have turned this house into a circus.” Mrs. Blake stepped closer, her voice low and sharp. “Maybe if you had kept yourself together, he would not have strayed.”

Viola gave a mock gasp. “Don’t be so harsh, Mrs. Blake. She did try, she just failed.” I looked at Sophie. Her eyes were wide. Confused. Hungry. That was the final straw. I knelt down and took her tiny hand. “Sweetheart,” I said gently, “go grab your giraffe plushie and your rain boots.”

“Where are we going, Mummy?” she asked, eyes lighting up. I smiled, even though my heart was bleeding. “We are going on vacation.” Viola scoffed. “Seriously?” Nathaniel rose, frustration tightening his features. “Stop being dramatic.” “I’m not being dramatic,” I said. “I’m being done.”

I wheeled out the old suitcase from the closet. Threw in clothes. Toothbrush. Socks. Sophie’s blanket. I zipped it shut and slung my bag over my shoulder. No one stopped me. No one offered help. It was exactly what I wanted. I was done dealing with that hypocritical family.

When I picked up my child, she clung to me like I was her whole world. At the door, I turned once, just once. Nathaniel’s back was already turned. Viola poured herself another glass of orange juice. And Mrs. Blake did not even bother to look. Heh. I chuckled drily and stepped out. No more looking back.

Outside, the sky cracked open. Rain poured down in wild, merciless sheets. But I did not turn back. I pulled the suitcase behind me, one hand gripping Sophie tight against my chest. I was soaked in seconds. Hair plastered to my face. Water in my shoes. But I kept walking. Because this was not the end. This was the beginning, of rediscovery. Of healing. Of knowing my worth. And the storm could not touch that.