For years, every storm felt like a visitor inside the house. Buckets lined the hallway, towels soaked on the floor, and sleep was light—ears tuned for the next drip.
The family got used to it, but deep down, it wore them out. A home is supposed to protect you, not keep you on guard.
When they finally replaced the roof, the change wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet. The next storm came, rain hammering the shingles—and nothing inside. No buckets. No towels. Just a dry, safe house.
That night, they slept deeply, the kind of sleep you only get when you know your home is holding strong.