Thunderstorms and Empty Rooms: A Walk Down Memory Lane

“Get up, Emily. Now!” Mom’s voice was shaking, sharp with panic. My eyes snapped open, heart already pounding. Thunder roared again, making the window rattle. I could see her silhouette in the flash of lightning—her hair wild, eyes wide as she grabbed my blanket and wrapped me tight, almost too tight, before dragging me from my bed.

We stumbled down the hallway, our feet cold on the hardwood, and she pushed me into the bathroom. She locked the door and slid down with her back pressed against it, pulling me onto her lap. I could feel her heartbeat, wild and fast, through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

We always hid in the bathroom when the storms were bad. It was the only room without windows, the only place that felt safe when the sky was angry. But even in that cramped space, I could feel something bigger than thunder shaking our world.

“Shhh,” Mom whispered, rocking me gently. “It’s just a storm. It’ll pass.”

But I remembered the notices taped to our front door, the ones with bold red letters that Mom tried to hide from me. I remembered how she’d cried in the kitchen last week, whispering into the phone, “I can’t pay this month. Please, just give us more time.”

The thunder faded, but the fear didn’t. The next morning, sunlight peeked through the clouds, and Mom made pancakes with the last of the mix. She smiled at me, her lips trembling just a little. “Maybe today will be better.”

But it wasn’t. That afternoon, a man in a suit knocked on our door. I watched from behind Mom as he handed her a stack of papers. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have to be out by Friday.”

Her shoulders sagged. She didn’t cry in front of him, just nodded and closed the door. But later, in the bathroom, she let herself sob, quiet and desperate.

I sat on the edge of the tub, not knowing what to say. I wanted to fix things, to make her smile again. I was only twelve, and all I could do was hold her hand and hope she’d feel less alone.

That night, while Mom called friends and distant relatives, begging for a couch or a spare room, I packed my backpack with the essentials: my favorite book, a photo of us at the county fair, and the tiny stuffed raccoon she won me on the boardwalk.

By Thursday morning, I found Mom sitting on the porch steps, her face turned to the gray sky. “We’ll walk to the shelter,” she said, voice flat. “It’s just a few blocks.”

So we left everything behind—our furniture, the faded curtains, the worn-out rug where I’d learned to crawl. The streets were slick, leftover rain pooling in the cracks. Mom held my hand so tightly I thought she might never let go.

On the way, we passed houses with bright windows and yards full of toys. I wondered if any of those kids were scared like me, if any of their moms had to choose between rent and groceries.

At the shelter, I learned how to be quiet. I learned to keep my head down, not to ask too many questions. The other kids looked at me with blank, tired eyes. Some of them had been there for months. The volunteers tried to make us laugh, but their smiles never reached their eyes.

Mom worked days at a diner, nights cleaning offices. I saw her less and less. When she did come back, she looked older, hunched over with exhaustion. Sometimes she snapped at me for little things—spilling my cereal, losing a sock—then apologized, hugging me too hard, as if she was afraid I’d disappear next.

One night, a storm hit again. The shelter’s roof leaked, puddles forming on the linoleum. I found Mom in the hallway, staring at the rain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You deserve so much better, Em.”

I hugged her, pressing my face into her side. “We’re together. That’s enough.”

But the truth was, I was angry. Angry at her for not being able to protect me. Angry at my dad for leaving. Angry at the world for making it so hard to just have a place to sleep.

When school started, I tried to hide the truth. I told people we were staying with family. I laughed at their jokes, pretended I didn’t care about clothes or sleepovers. But I couldn’t hide the circles under my eyes, or the way I flinched when someone slammed a locker.

One afternoon, my teacher, Mrs. Thompson, kept me after class. “Emily, is everything alright at home?”

I stared at my shoes. “We don’t really have a home.”

She knelt beside me, eyes kind and sad. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. Let me help.”

Mrs. Thompson called Mom, and together they found us a program for families in crisis. We got a tiny apartment with peeling paint and a broken heater, but it was ours.

Mom worked even harder, picking up extra shifts to pay for groceries and bus fare. Some nights, she’d fall asleep at the kitchen table, bills spread out in front of her. I’d cover her with my blanket and wish for better days.

Years passed, storms came and went. I got older, learned how to navigate the world with caution and hope. Mom and I still have fights—about money, about school, about the future. But we always come back to each other, holding on through the thunder.

Now, as I walk down these unfamiliar streets, every crack of thunder brings it all back—the fear, the hope, the way we survived. I wonder how many others are hiding in bathrooms tonight, hoping the storm will pass. I wonder if anyone ever really feels safe.

Do we ever stop being afraid of losing everything? Or do we just learn to live with the sound of thunder in our hearts?