Chapter 3: When the Rain Fell
Rain soaked her hair, her clothes clinging to her skin as though even the weather had turned against her. She stood frozen on the pavement, the house behind her dark and silent, the door shut with finality.
Her sister lingered just long enough to hurt her one last time.
"So dramatic," she said lightly, pulling her cardigan tighter as if shielding herself from contamination. "I guess this is what happens when you ruin everything."
Then the door closed.
She didn't remember how long she stood there. Minutes blurred into hours. Her fingers went numb around her phone before she finally unlocked it, her vision swimming as she scrolled to a name she hadn't dared to touch since the test.
Eliot.
Her message was short. Broken. Honest.
I'm pregnant.They kicked me out.I'm sorry.
She didn't expect a reply so fast.
Her phone rang.
"Where are you?" His voice came through the speaker, sharp with panic and something fiercer—resolve.
"I—I don't know," she whispered. "I don't have anywhere to go."
"Stay where you are," he said without hesitation. "I'm coming."
She laughed weakly, rain mixing with tears. "Eliot, you're in the UK."
"I don't care," he said. "I'll be there."
And he was.
Less than a day later, she saw him running toward her at the airport, jacket half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes searching wildly until they found her. The moment he reached her, she collapsed into his arms.
"I thought you'd hate me," she sobbed into his chest.
He held her tighter. "Never."
The flight back felt unreal. She barely slept, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other wrapped around his fingers as though afraid he might disappear.
She braced herself when they arrived at his home—ready for disappointment, for judgment.
But none came.
His parents welcomed her gently, his mother crying as she hugged her, his father placing a warm blanket over her shoulders. They didn't ask questions she wasn't ready to answer. They didn't look at her with shame.
They looked at her with care.
Weeks passed. Doctor visits. Scans. Moments where fear gave way to awe as she heard the heartbeat for the first time. She cried then—not from sadness, but from relief.
She rewrote her lyrics late at night, sitting on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against her knee. She played softly, sang even softer, her voice trembling as it wrapped around the tiny life growing inside her.
"This one's for you," she'd whisper.
They went baby shopping together, laughing quietly in aisles lined with impossibly small clothes. For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine a future.
When their daughter was born, healthy and warm in her arms, she finally understood what peace felt like.
They named her Lila Hale.
As Lila slept against her chest, the rain from that night felt far away—like a storm that had passed, leaving behind something new.
Not perfection.
But warmth.