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That night, the rain came down harder than I had seen in years. The wind howled through the trees, and thunder rolled like a drum above our small town. Inside our worn wooden house on Maple Lane, I sat at the kitchen table mending my son’s school uniform. My four children — Ava, Jacob, Lily, and Ben — were huddled around a flickering candle, finishing their homework as the storm rattled the windows.
It had been two years since my husband, Matthew, had lost his life in a construction accident. His absence left a silence that filled every corner of the house — along with bills I could barely pay. Still, it was our home, the one place where we felt safe.
