My Parents

My parents met on a rainy autumn afternoon in a small café on the edge of a park. Mum had been sitting by the window, her nose buried in a book, when Dad had walked in, drenched and looking somewhat flustered. The café had only one free table, which happened to be next to hers. With a sheepish smile, he'd asked if the seat was taken. Mum had looked up, her eyes twinkling with mild amusement, and motioned for him to sit.

"I hope you don't mind a wet dog for company," he said, grinning as he shook out his coat.

"That depends," she replied, "are you going to drip all over my book?"

It was the start of an unlikely friendship. They spent the next hour chatting about the weather, books, and the strange ways people always seemed to meet at just the right moment. Neither of them had been looking for love, but as the rain eased and they stood to leave, they both felt the sudden, undeniable spark.

They saw each other often after that. Mum would meet him for walks in the park, or they'd go to art galleries, where Dad would pretend to appreciate modern art just to make her laugh. Slowly, they built a life together—quiet mornings, endless cups of tea, and evenings spent in easy conversation.

Years later, when I ask how they knew they were meant to be, Mum will smile and say, "It was the rain that day. Sometimes, life just pours in with perfect timing."