“That’s exaggeration,” my mother replied sharply. “Brianna needs stability right now. Your sister comes first.”
Those words were not new. They were carved into my memory long before the storm. Brianna came first at dinner when the last piece of chicken remained. Brianna came first when schedules conflicted. Brianna came first when my achievements threatened to compete with hers. I had learned to shrink quietly.
By nightfall, the wind howled with a wild, animal fury. The power grid failed just after 8:30 PM. Inside the house, lantern light flickered warmly. In the garage, darkness swallowed everything whole. I dragged a thin mattress onto two stacked storage bins to lift it from the concrete floor. The air smelled of gasoline, mildew, and old cardboard. Every gust of wind rattled the aluminum door so violently I flinched.
For the first hour, I tried to be brave. I scrolled through my phone, conserving battery, listening to rain slam against the roof like endless applause for a disaster unfolding. Then the water began to seep under the garage door, a thin black ribbon that widened steadily. At first, it pooled shallowly near the entrance. I told myself it would stop. It didn’t.
Within thirty minutes, it had crept across the entire floor. I stepped down from the mattress and gasped at the cold. The water was already ankle-deep, swirling with dirt and oil residue. It carried the smell of the outside world being torn apart. I knocked on the interior door connecting to the kitchen.
“Mom? Dad? It’s flooding!”
