A Walk Down an Unknown Street

The thunder rattled the window panes so hard I thought they’d shatter. I’d barely closed my eyes before the sky erupted again, the kind of storm that makes you feel like the world’s ending. Mum was already awake, her arms around me before I’d even sat up. “Come on, love, quick,” she whispered, voice trembling but determined, and she bundled me in my old tartan blanket, the one that still smelled faintly of lavender and childhood. We dashed to the bathroom, the only room in our flat without a window, and she locked the door behind us.

We sat on the cold tiles, knees pulled to our chests, listening to the rain batter the roof. I could hear her breathing, shallow and quick, and I tried to match mine to hers, as if that would calm us both. “It’s just a storm, darling,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t believe it. Not really. Not after everything that happened.

It’s been three years since Dad left. Three years since that night when the thunder was so loud it drowned out the sound of the front door slamming. I was twelve, old enough to know something was wrong, but too young to understand why he’d never come back. Mum never talked about it, not really. She just got quieter, her smiles rarer, her hugs tighter. I learned to read her silences, to tiptoe around her moods, to be the daughter she needed even when I felt like I was disappearing.

Tonight, though, the storm feels different. Maybe it’s because I’m fifteen now, taller than Mum, my voice lower, my heart heavier. Or maybe it’s because I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. When the thunder finally fades, I slip out of the bathroom and into the hallway, my feet cold against the worn carpet. Mum follows, her face pale in the flickering light. “You alright, Jess?” she asks, and I nod, but I can’t meet her eyes.

I need air. I need space. I grab my coat and slip out the front door before she can stop me. The rain has eased to a drizzle, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. I walk, head down, hands shoved deep in my pockets, letting the city swallow me up. Sheffield at night is a different world—quiet, almost gentle, the usual bustle replaced by the soft hum of distant cars and the occasional bark of a dog. I don’t know where I’m going, but anywhere is better than home right now.

I wander past the corner shop where Mrs. Patel always gives me extra sweets, past the playground where I used to push my little brother on the swings before he moved to Dad’s new place in Manchester. I wonder if he’s scared of storms too, or if Dad holds him tight and tells him everything’s alright. The thought makes my chest ache, and I quicken my pace, turning down a street I’ve never noticed before.

The houses here are older, their bricks dark with rain, their gardens wild and overgrown. I pass a window where a family sits around a table, laughter spilling out into the night. For a moment, I imagine slipping inside, sitting at their table, letting their warmth wash over me. But I keep walking, my trainers squelching in the puddles, my mind racing with questions I can’t answer.

Why did Dad leave? Was it something I did? Something Mum did? I remember the fights, the shouting, the way he’d slam doors and stomp around the flat. But I also remember the good times—the Sunday mornings at the park, the way he’d lift me onto his shoulders so I could see the whole world. I want to hate him, but I can’t. Not really. I just miss him. I miss the way things used to be, before the storms, before the silences, before everything fell apart.

A car splashes past, its headlights blinding me for a second. I blink, wiping rain from my face, and realise I’m lost. The street names mean nothing, the houses all look the same, and my phone is dead in my pocket. Panic rises in my throat, hot and sharp, and I force myself to breathe. “You’re alright, Jess,” I whisper, echoing Mum’s words. “You’re alright.”

I keep walking, hoping to find something familiar, but the city feels endless. My thoughts spiral—what if I never find my way back? What if Mum wakes up and I’m gone? What if she thinks I’ve left her, just like Dad did? The guilt is worse than the fear, twisting in my stomach until I want to scream.

I stop under a streetlamp, the light buzzing overhead, and lean against the cold metal post. My hands are shaking. I close my eyes and try to remember the way home, but all I see is Dad’s face, blurry and distant. I want to call out for him, for Mum, for anyone, but the words stick in my throat.

A door creaks open nearby, and an old man steps out, his dressing gown flapping in the wind. He sees me and frowns. “You alright, love?” he calls, his voice rough but kind. I nod, swallowing hard. “Just… got a bit lost,” I manage, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He shuffles closer, peering at me through thick glasses. “You live round here?”

“Sort of,” I say, not sure if it’s true. “I’m from up near the high street.”

He nods, as if that explains everything. “Storms can be rough,” he says. “My wife used to hide in the cupboard when it thundered. Said it made her feel safe.”

I smile, just a little. “We hide in the bathroom.”

He chuckles. “Whatever works, eh?”

He points me in the right direction, and I thank him, my voice steadier now. As I walk away, I hear him call after me, “Tell your mum not to worry. The storm’s passed.”

The streets start to look familiar, the shapes of the houses less menacing. I think about Mum, probably pacing the flat, her phone in hand, ready to call the police. I think about Dad, wherever he is, and wonder if he ever thinks about us. I wonder if he misses the storms, the way we’d all huddle together, pretending we weren’t scared.

When I finally reach our building, the lights are on in the kitchen. Mum is at the window, her face pressed to the glass, searching the darkness. I hesitate, heart pounding, then push open the door. She rushes to me, arms outstretched, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Jess! Where have you been? I was so worried!”

I let her hold me, let her sob into my hair, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself cry too. We stand there, wrapped in each other, the storm outside finally quiet.

Later, as we sit at the kitchen table, mugs of tea warming our hands, I tell her about my walk, about the old man, about how lost I felt. She listens, really listens, and when I finish, she takes my hand. “We’re both a bit lost, love,” she says softly. “But we’ll find our way. Together.”

I nod, but the questions still linger. Will things ever feel normal again? Will the storms ever stop? Or do we just learn to live with them, finding shelter where we can?

I look at Mum, her eyes tired but hopeful, and I wonder—what does it really mean to come home? And will I ever stop being afraid of the thunder?