The rain had been falling for days, mirroring the downpour inside me. My world felt like it was shrinking, the walls of our apartment closing in, the silence between us deafening. I’d walked out without a destination, just needing to breathe air that didn’t feel heavy with unspoken accusations and the lingering scent of betrayal. The bus stop was just shelter, the bus itself a vessel to nowhere in particular. I just wanted to disappear into the mundane rhythm of the city, hoping it would drown out the frantic rhythm of my own heart.
I found a window seat at the back, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The city lights blurred into streaks of color, each one a pang of memory – a restaurant we’d loved, a park bench where we’d laughed, a bridge where we’d once carved our initials. God, was any of it real? The thought was a relentless hum, a torture. I felt hollowed out, scooped clean, leaving nothing but a gaping wound.
The bus was mostly empty, just a few weary souls lost in their own thoughts. Then, at the next stop, an older woman boarded. She moved slowly, gracefully, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, a faded floral scarf tied loosely around her neck. She carried a worn canvas bag that looked like it held a lifetime of stories. My initial reaction was to shrink further into my seat, to avoid eye contact, to protect my fragile shell. But she paused beside my row, a gentle smile on her lips. She didn’t look at me with pity, just a quiet understanding. Maybe she just needed a seat.
A husband and his pregnant wife arguing | Source: Midjourney
“Mind if I join you, dear?” Her voice was soft, melodic, like a forgotten lullaby. I just nodded, unable to form words. She settled beside me, her presence radiating a warmth that, surprisingly, didn’t feel intrusive. She didn’t press for conversation, just sat for a moment, looking out at the rain-swept streets.
After a while, she turned to me. Her eyes, though lined with age, held a surprising depth, a knowing kindness. “It’s a tough day, isn’t it?” she mused, her gaze not accusing, but acknowledging. I could only manage a slight shrug. A tear, unbidden, escaped and traced a path down my cold cheek. I quickly wiped it away, embarrassed.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” she said, reaching out a wrinkled hand to gently touch my arm. “Sometimes, a good cry is exactly what the soul needs. The rain outside, it’s just helping with the cleansing.” Her words were a gentle caress to my raw soul, a soothing balm I hadn’t known I desperately needed. She didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t pry. She just saw me.
A father arguing with his son | Source: Midjourney
She started talking then, her voice a comforting murmur. Not to me directly, not at first, but more like she was sharing a quiet thought with the universe, and I was just privileged to overhear it. She spoke of resilience, of the human spirit’s ability to mend, of finding strength even when you felt utterly broken. “Life throws us curveballs, doesn’t it?” she chuckled softly. “Sometimes, it feels like it’s aimed straight for the heart. But you learn to duck, to weave. You learn that even in the darkest corners, there’s always a flicker of light.”
Then, she began to speak of love. True love, she called it. She spoke of a connection so deep, so pure, that it transcended all obstacles. “I remember my own great love,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “He was my anchor, my lighthouse. And even though he’s gone now, the love… that never leaves you. It just changes form. It becomes a part of you, a strength you carry forward.” She paused, took a deep breath. “And seeing that kind of love in your own children… that’s a different kind of joy, isn’t it? To see them find their own person, their soulmate. To know they’re truly happy.”
My own person. Soulmate. The words twisted a knife in my gut. That was what I thought I had. What I thought we were. What I thought he was to me. I clung to her words, to the warmth radiating from her, trying to absorb some of that ancient wisdom, trying to believe that love could be that enduring, that kind.
A pregnant woman is consoled by her friends | Source: Midjourney
“My child… they’ve found such happiness,” she continued, her voice swelling with pride. “After so many years, so much searching. Someone so kind, so understanding. They really complete each other.” She smiled, a genuine, radiant smile. “They built a life together, quietly, away from the hustle and bustle. It wasn’t always easy, you know. There were challenges, some people who didn’t understand. But they persevered. They knew what they had was real.”
A tremor went through me. Challenges? People who didn’t understand? A cold dread started to seep into my bones. Her words, so comforting just moments before, began to prickle. No, impossible. It’s just a coincidence. My mind was playing tricks, warped by my own pain.
She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. “This,” she said, holding it up, “my child carved this for me. A little bluebird of happiness. They’re so talented, so artistic. Always sketching, always creating.”
Two pregnant women talking | Source: Midjourney
My breath hitched. The air caught in my throat. Artistic. Bluebird. The blood drained from my face. I knew that bird. I had seen that bird. Not this exact one, but a similar one. A sketch in a notebook I once found, tucked away. A detail he had described to me once, a hobby I knew he enjoyed. He loved to carve little birds. He’d even promised to make me one. He had. He’d promised.
“It reminds me of them,” she went on, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. “Always pursuing beauty. Always putting their heart into everything they do. And now, they’re building a home with this wonderful person. They even got a new little puppy together, a golden retriever, fluffy and full of mischief. Just like they always wanted.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate bird trapped in a cage. A golden retriever puppy. We had talked about getting one, someday. He had shown me pictures. He had described it in detail – fluffy, mischievous, a golden retriever.
And then she said it. The detail that shattered everything, that left no room for doubt, no space for denial. She gently squeezed my hand again, her eyes brimming with a soft joy. “I just spoke to them this morning. They’re so excited. They’re planning a big trip next month, to that little coastal town they both love so much. The one with the old lighthouse, and the best fish and chips you’ve ever tasted.”
Two pregnant women talking | Source: Midjourney
The world tilted. The bus kept moving, but my life had stopped.
THAT. WAS. OUR. TOWN. Our secret place. The coastal town we both loved. The old lighthouse we climbed every year. The fish and chips we said were the best in the world. The trip we were supposed to be planning for next month.
And he had told me he had to cancel. A sudden work emergency.
My eyes snapped to her face. Her kind, gentle face. A face so full of love and pride. A face that was utterly, devastatingly familiar now that the pieces clicked into place.
OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.
IT WAS HIM. IT WAS HIS MOTHER.
She was talking about him. Her beloved child. My partner.
And the “someone so perfect, so kind” he had “found,” the “soulmate” he was “building a beautiful future” with, the person he had “been with for years quietly, building something real”…
A woman going through a phone | Source: Pexels
IT WAS THE OTHER WOMAN.
The woman he’d denied. The woman whose name I’d screamed at him just hours ago, the one he swore was nothing, a mistake, a fleeting moment of weakness.
She had just told me their entire story. Unwittingly. With pride. With joy. My partner’s mother, a woman I had met only briefly a handful of times, a woman I always thought was so sweet, so disconnected from the mess of his life, had just laid bare the complete, devastating truth. He hadn’t found a soulmate. He had two lives. One with me, and one with her. And his own mother, in her purest, most innocent moment of maternal pride, had just confirmed which one was the real one. The one he was building. The one with years behind it. The one he was taking to our special place.
I sat there, numb, holding the hand of the woman who had just unwittingly shattered the last fragments of my heart into a million irreparable pieces. The bus drove on, carrying me to a future I suddenly no longer recognized.
