I feel the tickle of a single raindrop lapping the tip of my nose, and before I have time to wipe it away, a raging downpour catches me off guard. I shake my head in disbelief, and stare toward the heavens. My eyes catch sight of a single dark cloud, unfurling ominously above the school grounds, as if to torment me, and me only.

I stand amongst a crowd of irritable parents, feeling a little naked and exposed in my shorts and slightly see-through tank top. I can sense the curious eyes of nearby fathers upon me, prompting me to press my arms together in order to cover myself.

The day hasn’t been kind to me, and now, neither has the weather. To be fair, it had been a warm eighty-four degrees all day. Now I am becoming soaked from head to toe, and there’s no sense in feeling embarrassed. At this point, I may as well surrender and embrace the satire. 

There’s a mom standing right next to me. She came prepared wearing a waterproof parka. Her toddler stumbles haphazardly between us with a Peppa Pig umbrella, just barely grazing my leg with its sharp edges. I continue to stand there awkwardly—my entire body becoming drenched in the unrelenting monsoon. 

Another mother, whom I don’t recognize approaches me from seemingly out of nowhere. I’m half-expecting her to insinuate the stupidity regarding my lack of clothing. Instead, she gives me a look over, then she squints her eyes, as if trying to figure me out. 

“You’re Anthony’s ex, right?” 

“Yes…” It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been labeled as an ex of his, rather than an actual person with an actual name.

“I just…nice to meet you. My name’s Clara.” Her hand springs forward to shake mine. I stare at it, perhaps a little too bluntly. Her nails are perfectly manicured, and I can’t help but wonder how other mothers with young children find time to pamper themselves. 

Although still confused as to why she has made an effort to introduce herself, I reach out to place my cold, wet hand into her soft, warm one. Unfortunately, I can only make an educated guess as to why she has taken an interest in me, and it’s one that I really wish weren’t true.

“Hi, Clara. My name is Laura.” I catch myself saying my own name rather sarcastically. I’m unwilling to entertain the thought of being labeled as just “an ex.” It seems that the remaining ties I have left to Anthony continue to haunt me. 

I try to make small talk. “Who’s your child’s teacher?”

She studies me briefly, as though she’s about to answer. Then, like a startled deer, she takes off at a fast pace towards the school’s entrance, as though distracted by something urgent.

Well, that was rude…

The school bell finally blares the tune of dismissal, and I find myself questioning the whereabouts of my black umbrella. It’s the only one that I’ve managed to keep intact for literally decades. I look around and notice that I am, in fact, one of the only loonies without one.

Within seconds, children file out through hallway doors in an uproar of excited laughter, screams, and conversation humming eerily over the sounds of thunder and rain.

I completely space it for at least five minutes, while I reminisce about a time when my parents were still around. My mother used to meet my brother and me at school, and we would walk home together, sometimes in the pouring rain, but she always came prepared with a giant umbrella, an umbrella large enough to cover all three of us. 

The cold damp begins to soak its way into my psyche, and I am suddenly hurtled back to the present.

“Mom?”

I spin around towards the sweet sound. My son, Adrian has been clambering in an oak tree about six feet from me for God knows how long. My heart sinks when I finally acknowledge just how tired and out of it I really am. 

The weight of his skinny body creates a sag on the lowest branch as he hangs upside down, his arms and legs wrapped around tightly. I watch absent-mindedly as the contents of his backpack spill out onto the pavement below.

“Ok, babe. Get down now,” I say, while gathering his belongings from the ground. “How was your day?”

Adrian opens his mouth, tongue pressed out like a dog to catch rain drops as they trickle through the canopy above. That question generally goes unanswered, but I tend to ask it anyway. 

I sigh. “Are you ready to go? We’re getting soaked!”

My drenched seven-year-old releases his grip on the tree, flings his legs toward the ground and drops with the gracefulness of an agile cat. 

“Mom?” He looks up at me, his big brown eyes filling with concern. “Do you think when I finish my homework, I could have a popsicle?”

Things are often easily forgotten when your life remains so busy, there’s scarcely time to breathe. It’s been three years since I discovered my ex-husband’s affair, and two years since we made the divorce official. The memories of how it ended used to haunt me, leave me feeling anxiety-stricken and full of despair. Now, however, I have learned to cope by focusing on a sense of purpose. My whole life revolves chaotically around my son and the future I want to provide for him. 

I own and work at a preschool, located on the outskirts of town. I love the work that I do, but it’s incredibly exhausting. If I’m being honest, I sometimes wish I could crawl into a closet and hide for hours at a time, especially smack dab in the middle of my work day when things tend to feel most overwhelming. 

As I stand in the kitchen loading the dishwasher with the morning’s menagerie of dishes and utensils, I realize I haven’t thought about my ex in over a month. For me, this was paramount. Was I finally moving on?

“Mom?” 

I snap out of my trance and turn toward Adrian. He is chewing on his left over popsicle stick. 

“Do you think my teacher’s a bitch?” 

A bitch? Horrified, I reach over to snatch the popsicle stick from his mouth. “Where did you hear that word, and why would I think that about Ms. Paula?!” 

“That’s what Dad said,” he says with mild hesitation. Then his body sags, his expression turning solemn. “Ms. Paula’s a bitch, right?” 

Adrian has had Ms. Paula for his teacher, a mere three weeks. How Anthony was able to form such a harsh opinion of her during this short time is beyond me. I press my palm against my chest as I take in a deep breath. I can feel the deep dark river of rage creeping once again through my veins, trying to take  hold. The same rage that gave me the courage to leave him those years ago. 

“No, Adrian. I don’t know what your father told you, but Ms. Paula is not a bitch, and we are not going to use that word again because it’s nasty and hurtful.”

“Oh…” Adrian blinks slowly, his eyes gazing into an abyss of sorts. He appears stunned by my reaction.

“Are you hungry for dinner?” I ask, trying to channel my anger and avert the subject.

He looks up at me and nods. “I think we need to have a innervation with Dad.”

“An intervention?” I corrected him. It’s most definitely a big word for a seven-year-old.  “Like we haven’t already tried that,” I scoff sarcastically under my breath, “Because that would make a whole world of difference…”

Somehow this day has been a test of my resoluteness, and somehow I have failed. Feeling that anger all over again sends me spiraling back in time to those moments of doom — to all those sleepless nights tossing and turning, wishing Anthony would return to me and make amends. In my twisted imagination, I would envision him standing in the doorway of my tiny apartment, his head and shoulders slumped in remorse, with that ever-so-pathetic puppy-dog look on his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” he would say. “I fucked up so badly. Please take me back! I will never ever hurt you again. I love you more than anything…”

How could I be so stupid?! I was so insecure back then, with no clue how much I deserved better. Those were the nights I wished to forget forever — those thoughts of needing him so desperately, that my life could not possibly go on without him. 

I’ve endured three years of being single, but perhaps the worst part of this realization was the fact that I hadn’t worked up the confidence to start dating again.