The Summer in the Basement

There was an explosion so loud it rattled my bones. My first thought was that a semi had slammed straight into our house — then, as the kitchen window shattered and the ground trembled, I realized something terrible had happened.

“Mom!” I screamed, fumbling with the bowl of ground beef in my hands, and it slipped, shattering on the tile floor. Our gray tabby, Smokey, bolted across the room and dove under the kitchen table. My little brother, Josh, came running down the hall, face pale, eyes wild.

“Ellie, what was that?” he gasped, voice cracking. Our mother, hunched over her phone at the dining table, froze mid-scroll and looked up, her face drained of color.

“Get to the basement! Now!” she barked, and for once, nobody argued.

It was June in Columbus, Ohio — supposed to be a lazy Saturday, the beginning of summer. Instead, we scrambled down the narrow stairs, Mom clutching her phone, Josh clutching his inhaler. My older sister, Caroline, was screaming for her boyfriend on FaceTime, her voice echoing off the cinderblock walls.

In the dim basement light, the four of us huddled together, backs pressed to the washing machine. We listened to sirens wailing, distant but growing louder.

“Is it a tornado?” Josh whispered. I shook my head, but I honestly didn’t know.

Mom pressed her phone to her ear. “No service,” she muttered, knuckles white. “Dammit.”

We sat in silence for a minute, just the hum of the dryer and Caroline’s shaky breathing. Then she started in — because that’s what Caroline does.

“This is all your fault, Ellie,” she snapped. “If you hadn’t left the window open, I bet the glass wouldn’t have—”

“Shut up, Caroline!” I snapped back, tears stinging my eyes. “How is this my fault? It was an explosion!”

“Both of you, enough!” Mom cut in, voice trembling. “We need to stay calm.”

But nobody was calm. The air was thick with fear and anger and something else — something old and rotten that seemed to crawl out of the walls with every rumble from above.

Minutes dragged. Josh rocked back and forth, inhaler pressed to his lips. Caroline kept checking her phone, cursing under her breath. Mom stared at the floor, jaw clenched. I tried to remember what Dad had said to do in emergencies, but all I could think of was the sound of the explosion, echoing in my head.

After half an hour, we heard voices outside — shouting, running feet, a dog barking. Mom finally got a bar of service.

“Let me try your dad,” she said, dialing, her hands shaking so hard she could barely hold the phone. It went to voicemail. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Josh looked up at her with huge eyes. “Is Dad okay?”

She hesitated. “He’s probably just… busy.”

But I saw the truth in her face: worry, and something like guilt. Dad had left six months ago, after a fight so loud the neighbors called the cops. He lived across town now. We saw him every other weekend, except when he made excuses.

I caught Caroline watching me, something sharp in her expression. “You think this is about Dad?” she whispered. “You think he could be hurt?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “I just — I hope he’s okay.”

She snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe if he hadn’t left, none of this would’ve happened.”

Mom’s head snapped up. “Stop it, both of you! This is nobody’s fault. The only thing that matters is that we’re safe.”

But we weren’t safe. Not really. Not from the world outside, and not from each other.

The hours passed in fits and starts. The power flickered. Josh fell asleep against my shoulder. Caroline texted her boyfriend, fingers flying. Mom tried to call Dad again. I sat and remembered — last Christmas, when Dad still lived with us, and we all pretended everything was fine.

Suddenly, Caroline broke the silence. “When are you going to tell them, Mom?”

Mom stiffened. “Not now, Caroline.”

Josh stirred, blinking awake. “Tell us what?”

Caroline glared at Mom. “You owe us the truth.”

Mom’s breath hitched. She looked at each of us, her eyes shiny. “Your father… he’s not coming back. He lost his job months ago. He’s been—he’s been in trouble. I didn’t want to worry you.”

We stared at her, stunned. Josh’s lip trembled. I felt hollow.

“Is that why he stopped calling?” I whispered.

Mom nodded, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. “I was trying to protect you.”

Caroline’s voice was cold. “You’re always trying to protect us. Maybe if you just told the truth—”

“Caroline, that’s enough,” I said, surprising myself. “Mom’s doing her best.”

Caroline opened her mouth to retort, but then slumped, suddenly small. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

I reached for her hand. She let me. It was the first time in years.

A few hours later, the news came: a gas main had exploded at the corner store. No one in our building was hurt, but the store was gone. Our windows were smashed, but the house stood.

We emerged from the basement, blinking in the harsh afternoon light, our world forever changed. The kitchen was a mess — glass everywhere, the ground beef ruined, Smokey trembling under a chair.

But something else had shifted, too. Caroline hugged me. Mom apologized for keeping secrets. Josh smiled, just a little. We swept up the glass together, side by side.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, I wondered: Do families ever truly heal from the things that break them, or do we just find ways to live with the cracks? What would you do if your world exploded — would you hide, or would you finally tell the truth?