For years, the roof leaked whenever the rain came heavy. At first, it was just a drip in the hallway, caught with a bucket. But slowly, it spread—new stains on the ceiling, the quiet dread every time the clouds rolled in.
The family got used to it, in that way people sometimes do. Towels on the floor, shifting furniture, joking about “indoor rain.” But underneath the humor was worry—would it get worse, would it damage more, would they ever really be able to fix it?
Eventually, they found the courage and the budget to repair it properly. Shingles replaced, flashing secured, leaks sealed. The next storm came, and for the first time in years, the house stayed dry.
They sat in the living room, listening to the rain outside. No buckets, no stains, no sighs. Just the sound of rain where it belonged—on the roof, not inside their home.
It wasn’t just a repair. It was safety. It was relief. It was finally being able to exhale.