One moment I was washing dishes, the next, floodwater filled the house. I grabbed my kids and rushed upstairs. The power was out. My phone was dead. Then—banging at the window. A man in a yellow raincoat, waist-deep in water, shouted, “Pass them to me!”
I handed him Liam, then Nora. He held them close and walked through the flood like he’d done it before. A boat pulled up—he passed them in and turned back without a word.
No one knew who he was.
Later, we returned home. Mud everywhere. Upstairs, I found large, muddy footprints by the window. His.
Weeks passed. Then one day, he appeared at my sister’s door—same jacket, toolbox in hand. “Heard your place was hit. Thought I’d help.”
He worked beside me for three days, then vanished. No goodbye. Just a fixed door and swept porch.
Months later, when Nora was hospitalized, a nurse said a man came asking about her. He left a note: “She’s strong like her mom,” and a plastic firefighter badge.
That’s when I knew.
I never learned his name. But I still find signs—flowers, tools, quiet kindness.
Sometimes, heroes don’t want thanks. Just to help.
