To them, it was a miserable day.

To them, it was a miserable day; gray and too rainy to go about their schedule, but too late to cancel everything. It's something that interferes, her grandmother always muttered, and it was always a disturbance, her grandfather would add. But to sweet little Emily, it's a painting of unusual things, and she guesses this is why they don't see her grandparents as often, only really when they'd run out of excuses.

Emily's grown familiar with complaints between her grandparents and how her parents would try to steer her away from it to keep her mind from succumbing to the treacherous reality. Her grandparents are staying for Easter weekend, and each morning Emily recites their vocabulary as if it were her own, posing as them too to get a giggle from her mother or a snort from her father—two occurrences rare in the presence of her father's elders.

As curtains are drawn and heavy clouds swallow the hues of the night sky giving way to the morning sun, Emily mimics her grandmother’s eyeroll and mouths her grandfather’s tongue as though it were his native language. Though as her mother turns, Emily hastily feigns sleep, fighting her smile as her mother nears and tilting her head further into her pillow when the cup is gently placed down on the bedside table. Her mother begins to hum, massaging Emily’s hand and up her forearm, towards her shoulder, and sneaks her fingers into the crook—

‘No!’ Emily squeals when the fingertips become featherlight and tickling her weak spots. Her mother laughs along,

‘Wakey wakey, sleepy head.’ She rolls her over and lies over Emily’s stomach and onto her elbow.

Waking up to rain bathing every trace of surface has managed to slow her parents down, including herself. It helps balance her time between sketching, reading, and video games, which usually brings her peace, but her anticipation makes it impossible to settle. Despite her excitement for her hobbies, a thrill-induced chill erupts in goosebumps across her skin. A wide smile spreads over her face—she doesn’t have to watch the rain from her windowsill. Instead, after the train ride, she would finally be there, with arms spread wide and face tilted toward the sky, letting the rain kiss her skin. Her eyes dart from the window to her mother, retrieving her cup.

‘Are you going to try your new raincoat?’ She asks quietly, fingertip warmed by the ceramic brushing messy strands from Emily’s face.

Emily nods. ‘Can we do matching boots with dad?’

Her mother pretends to think deeply, humming and puckering her lips. Emily rises and falls against her mother while the smell of lavender tea fills the room.

‘Breakfast!’ The moment her father’s voice echoes through the house, Emily is hooked, her focus shifting instantly to the open door as the aroma of honey-bacon and eggs floods in. Just knowing his infamous Sunday scones are fresh from the oven makes her mouth water. She utters a startled shriek that turns into laughter at the realization that she’d fallen right into her mother’s tickle-trap.

Her mother inches closer, peppers kisses on her cheeks and up to her forehead, and wraps her arms around Emily’s waist. ‘One, two, three.’

Bracing herself, Emily let her mother lift her, flailing her feet to navigate her slippers while anchored in her mother's embrace.

‘Got ‘em,’

‘Well done, my love.’ She grabs her cup again. ‘Now let’s see what your dad has made for us.’

The table falls into a comfortable back and forth of interest and check-ins; her grandparents have gone down the hallway to prepare for the day. Emily lathers her scone with peanut butter and jelly, savoring the aftertaste of bacon before sweetness erupts. Her parents discuss the change of plans for the day; her mother will leave the picnic basket and abundance of blankets to make a reservation at the family-owned pizza restaurant located in the park, while her father will keep his parents busy with reassurance of no rescheduling, that nothing dangerous would happen, and that they could hook arms with him and his wife. Emily enthusiastically suggested the flower shop and several vintage boutiques she knew Grandma would love, and her parents happily agreed—everyone would find a special treasure from the outing. She smiles, her parents oblivious that she only brought it up so she could visit the toy store before they could say no.

‘What are you scheming, mh?’ Her father levels their eyes, grinning at the state of Emily fighting remnants of her breakfast off her hands and mouth,

‘I can only wonder,’ her mother adds before taking a sip, staring over the rim of the cup with a glint in her eyes. ‘I have a suspicion it has something to do with a store her grandparents can’t deny paying for,’

‘Oh, I see.’ He leans closer. ‘You already have your own plan, little miss independent.’

Emily chuckles, bares her teeth with crunchy peanut butter smudged across her front teeth. Both her parents utter ‘ew’, but laugh all the same while her father grabs his own scone and a scoop of peanut butter.

Emily curls her fingers inside her pockets. She inhales deeply, the crisp piney air burning up her nose and down, filling her lungs. She does so again, and the stillness that comes with such weather stills her mind. She plops herself onto the third step of the porch’s staircase and brings her knees to her chest while pulling her hood on and nestling her hands back into her pockets. Puddles ripple with scarce raindrops fluttering from the clouds as pigeons puff their feathers underneath the coverage of benches and plant leaves, or rooted on top of branches, while birds dive their beaks into the ground in search of food. Emily huffs a chuckle when a little sparrow stumbles over with the ferocity with which it tugged the worm out of the ground. Her laugh snaps off harshly when the iciness sneaks past the collar of her shirt, and she tucks her chin to her chest, bowing her head behind the zipper and exhaling through her mouth.

The chilled spots of her neck soothe at the warmth, and she closes her eyes. She wondered if, by sitting perfectly still, she could coax the birds into finding solace beside her. Surely they’re smarter than to sit on a bright pink stone. Emily smiles at the idea and relaxes within the snug barrier she created. She’s not left alone for too long as footsteps rumble down the staircase, and her parents’ voices are short with frustration against the doom that is her grandparents’ perspective on the sudden change of weather, albeit, if it had been the other way around, they’d complain about the heat just as much.

To them, it was a miserable day. Each person walking through the doors recites a different copy of the same disapproval. Emily worries that Mother Nature can hear the surrounding disdain, and it hurts to hear such negativity regarding something that cleanses and feeds the Earth. She chews her cheek, holding her mother’s hand tightly while the crowded train settles. Across the aisle near the doors, she met the gaze of a woman with grayish-blue eyes who gave a kind, reassuring smile. As the train moved, the woman put on headphones and opened a book, retreating into her own world. She seems really cool, Emily thinks. Her coat, folded neatly next to her, is a pastel pink, and two rings on each hand, with a loose bracelet peaking through her long-sleeved sweater. The woman reminds Emily of her mother: reserved, warm, and classy. She wonders if the woman has someone as cool as her father dear to her heart, or if she’s meeting up with her friends.

She tracks her eyes to the man sitting on the seat next to her, a bouquet of lilies perched up inside his bag with a towel wrapped around the plastic seal. They’re beautiful, and even more so with some raindrops rolling down the darkened green leaves while other, much smaller ones, find peace on top of the white petals. She’s enamored. Though Emily’s focus dwindles from the man’s bouquet to her grandfather’s rant about the cold bothering his knee, and her father pays no mind as he informs her grandmother about the art store in the Park. Emily peers at her hands. Maybe they’re right, perhaps the day has gone badly.

Her mother bumps her shoulder, does so once more to get her full attention. She turns Emily’s back to her side and pulls her into her side. Emily follows the direction her mother points to,

‘Look at those rays coming through the clouds,’ her mother urges, and they’re both struck with awe at the clouds splitting just a couple of inches, allowing the sun to beam through.

It disappears, reappearing somewhere else, and Emily is on her knees with her nose nearly pressed against the glass, joining the observations while her mother explains why it’s happening.

To us, it was a miserable day. Emily’s long since forgotten her book, too caught up with how the mother and daughter across from her are appreciating the clouds breaking apart, momentarily allowing the sun to glimpse through. It reminds her of when her mother would pull her against her side and point at every magical occurrence within the clouds. Emily smiles. The weekend was lovely while visiting her parents, with the morning starting beautifully, breakfast on the porch, and too many smeared peanut butter and jelly scones shared between her and her father while her mother refreshed the teapot.

The sight of the mother and daughter leaves her heart aching, not for the years gone by, but with shame for having muttered such trivial complaints about the turning weather. She wasn't sure if it was a distinct moment or merely a subtle shift in perspective, a quiet reordering of her world as she entered adulthood. Rather than living, she was caught in society’s winner-takes-it-all, black-and-white script, chasing a definition of success that forced her to overlook the beauty in the mundane. Emily’s gutted with the sudden realisation. Has she lost her sense of seeing the whimsy between the bleak and mundane? When was the last time she stopped and breathed in the crisp, piney air, or watched the birds having a tug of war with worms?

Emily chuckles. The memory of the bird stumbling returns with startling clarity, as vivid as if it happened this morning, yet the initial, sharp sensation hastily dissipates into a cold heaviness in her stomach, and her face grows crimson with the lack of checking in with herself as much as her parents did when she was younger.

Emily follows the mother’s pointing and listens to the daughter’s silly made-up stories of whatever character she envisioned swerving through the clouds. She’s filled with the same warmth as her mother’s fingertip, softened by the steaming teacup as she brushes hair out of her face.

She watches the sun pierce through heavy clouds, casting linear shafts of light across the valley. Not far away, nestled against the mountain top near the railway, she tracks the fragile, shimmering beginnings of a rainbow, and Emily simply smiles—to them, it was a miserable day.