They called it “a once-in-a-generation storm,” the kind that tears towns apart and leaves silence in its wake. We’d heard the warnings, stocked supplies, and charged everything we could. When the sky turned dark and the wind howled like it was alive, I gathered the kids and headed to higher ground.
My husband, Quade, stayed behind to board the windows and secure what he could.
He promised he’d be right behind us.
He never made it.
I still remember the sirens, the rain pounding like fists, and the quiet that followed. I came back to half our roof gone, water pouring down the walls, and the air heavy with mold and loss.
Quade’s boots were still by the door.
That was a year ago.
The house was livable, in the technical sense. We’d patched the worst damage, cleared the wreckage, and made sure the kids had places to sleep. But every cracked wall, every stained ceiling, every strip of peeling wallpaper reminded us: this is where everything fell apart.
