I didn’t see the flood coming.
One moment, I was rinsing dishes with the sun shining through the window. The next, water was seeping over my ankles, then rising past my knees. The power flickered out. Something heavy slammed against the front door. I didn’t think—I just scooped up my kids, Liam and Nora, and ran upstairs as our living room disappeared under dark, rushing water.
My phone was dead. Outside, the storm roared, the wind carrying bits of debris that cracked against the walls. I held my children close, trying to stay calm even though I was terrified.
Then—a knock. Soft, but steady, at the second-floor window. A flashlight beam cut through the downpour. A man stood waist-deep in the flood, wearing a bright yellow raincoat. He called out gently, “I’m here—pass them to me!”
I didn’t hesitate.
Liam first, then Nora. He held them with care, moving through the water with calm determination—like it wasn’t his first rescue. Before I could follow, a boat appeared. He handed my children safely aboard but didn’t climb in himself. He turned back toward the flooded homes.
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