My Roof Doesn't Leak Anymore, But I Still Miss the Rain

My Roof Doesn't Leak Anymore, But I Still Miss the Rain

Written by Raza Iqbal

ul, but the kind that makes you search for something you didn’t realize you’d miss. There was no dripping sound in the bucket by the stove. No wet corner in the back bedroom. No mildew scent clinging to the edges of the old floral curtain.

Just dry air, new paint, and too much quiet.

Maria wrapped her fingers around the mug of tea and walked barefoot across polished wooden floors. It had taken her 12 years to get here. Twelve years of working double shifts at the diner, patching leaks with old tarps, and tucking her children in under quilts she stitched from their baby clothes because she couldn't afford to keep the heating on all night.

The old house had been a mess—cracks in the walls, a leaky roof that groaned under every monsoon, and windows that whistled when the wind got mean. But it had been theirs. Scarred, broken, weathered—but theirs.

And now?

Now the faucet worked without a fight. The lights came on without flickering. And the roof didn’t leak.

But something inside her felt hollow.

When her daughter Sofia had been ten, she once asked, “Mama, why does it always rain in our house even when it’s not raining outside?” They had laughed. Or tried to. Maria had looked up at the ceiling where the brown stain was starting to widen. “Because our roof loves water too much,” she had said.

Sofia didn’t understand back then. Maybe she still didn’t.

Now at eighteen, she had her own room with a door that shut properly. No need to stuff socks in the frame to keep the cold wind out. Her laughter echoed in this new house with light walls and clean carpets. She danced to music on Bluetooth speakers and posted videos to apps Maria didn’t understand.

She had moved on like young people do. Like they’re supposed to.

But Maria couldn’t stop thinking about the rain.

She remembered how it used to begin.

A soft patter. Then a steady rhythm. Then the drops that breached the roof would begin to fall inside—on the stove, the floor, the worn-out sofa. Buckets would come out. Towels, too. She used to curse it. Curse the rain. Curse the ceiling.

But after the kids went to bed, she’d sit near the leaking spot in the living room, the bucket catching each drop like a metronome. Sometimes it soothed her, like a song only she could hear. In that sound was struggle—but also strength. Proof she had survived another day.

The roof didn't keep her safe. She kept them safe.

In this new house, there were no leaks. But there were also no signs of survival. No cracks that told stories. No floorboards that creaked with age. Everything was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Maria walked outside onto the small back porch, where soft rain was beginning to fall. It was different here. The rain didn’t sneak in—it stayed politely outside. It tapped gently on the glass, not angrily on the roof.

She missed that angry rain. The kind that demanded attention. The kind that made you hustle, scramble, live.

The neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, waved from her own back porch. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” she called out.

Maria nodded politely. “Yes… peaceful.”

Peaceful. That was the word everyone used when they visited the new house. “It’s so peaceful here.” “What a peaceful neighborhood.” “You must feel so at peace now.”

But Maria didn’t feel peace. She felt absence.

That night, she rummaged through one of the moving boxes she hadn’t unpacked yet. It was labeled Misc. She found a torn photo album with peeling pages. Inside, pictures of her kids in worn-out jackets, standing ankle-deep in muddy puddles outside the old house. Smiling. One photo caught her eye—Sofia at age five, in pink rain boots, dancing on the water-drenched patio as the sky cried above her.

She remembered Sofia had said that day, “Mama, the rain is hugging me!”

Maria had laughed then. She hadn’t done much laughing lately.

The next morning, the rain came again.

She didn’t make tea. She didn’t turn on the lights. She just stood by the window and watched it pour.

Then she did something she hadn’t done in years.

She stepped outside. No umbrella. No boots. Just her bare feet and the open sky.

She walked to the edge of the porch and stretched her arms wide. The rain soaked her hair, her clothes, her skin.

And then it happened.

She cried.

Not because she was sad. But because she remembered.

She remembered what it meant to keep going when the roof leaks and the paycheck doesn’t stretch. She remembered what it meant to dry the floor while humming lullabies. To turn suffering into routine. To turn hardship into hope.

She missed that version of herself. Not because she wanted to suffer again—but because that woman was alive in a way this polished, safe, clean version was still learning to be.

Sofia came outside, startled. “Mama! Are you okay? You’re—soaked!”

Maria looked at her and smiled, water running down her face. “I’m okay, mija. I just needed to feel it one more time.”

Sofia looked confused, then slowly stepped into the rain too. “Like old times?”

Maria nodded. “Like old times.”

They stood together in silence. The rain poured, the earth softened, and the sky didn’t ask for permission to cry.

And for the first time in a long while, Maria felt home.