Divorced mom renovates old house with her kids to start a new life, what they found inside… shocked everyone

Is Sophie going to be okay? Rebecca put an arm around his shoulders. She will be. We all will.

It’s just a rough patch. Speaking of rough patches, Daniel said, we should check on that basement flooding before it gets worse. The basement revealed the full extent of the storm’s damage.

Water was seeping in through the foundation walls and pooling several inches deep on the concrete floor. The ancient water heater stood in the growing puddle, making ominous popping sounds. This isn’t good, Daniel said, waiting through the water to examine the heater.

We need to shut this off before it shorts out completely. As they worked to mitigate the flooding, bringing buckets, towels, and the shop vacuum Daniel had left on site, Rebecca felt a crushing weight of defeat pressing down on her. The house seemed to be fighting back against their renovation efforts, revealing new problems faster than they could solve the old ones.

By midnight, the storm had finally passed, though the power remained out. Daniel had stayed to help with emergency measures, but the damage was significant. Water had seeped up through the floorboards in several downstairs rooms.

The newly exposed wooden subfloor now warped and stained. We’ll assess everything in daylight, Daniel said as he prepared to leave. It might look better once things dry out, but they both knew he was being optimistic.

After he left, Rebecca sat alone in the dark kitchen, a battery-powered lantern casting long shadows on the walls. Noah had finally fallen asleep, and Sophie remained barricaded in her room. The house creaked and settled around her, water still dripping from somewhere into a pot she’d placed on the floor.

She pulled out her phone, now plugged into her laptop for charging, and opened the camera roll. Scrolling back, she found photos from their previous life. The spacious suburban home with its perfect lawn, the kids smiling at birthday parties, family vacations with her now ex-husband.

They looked happy, untroubled. Had it all been an illusion? On impulse, she opened Instagram and began typing, Tonight, our renovation hit rock bottom, literally. Our basement is flooded, the power is out, and my teenage daughter just told me she hates everything about our new life.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. Is trying to save this old house just another way of avoiding the truth that some things can’t be fixed? Her finger hovered over the post button. Was she really going to share this vulnerability with strangers? With a deep breath, she pressed post, then set the phone aside.

Morning arrived with weak sunlight filtering through windows still streaked with yesterday’s rain. Rebecca had fallen asleep at the kitchen table, her neck stiff and aching. The power was still out, and the house felt damp and colder than before.

She made her way to the basement stairs, dreading what she would find. The water level had receded slightly, but left behind a layer of silt and debris. The water heater was definitely dead, another major expense she hadn’t budgeted for.

As she stood surveying the damage, footsteps approached behind her. Is it bad? Sophie’s voice was quiet. All the anger from the previous night drained away.

Rebecca turned to find her daughter standing on the stairs, looking small and uncertain in her oversized sweater. It’s not great, she admitted, but it’s fixable. Sophie nodded, coming to stand beside her mother.

I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have said those things. Rebecca put an arm around her shoulders, surprised when Sophie didn’t pull away.

Some of what you said was true. I did make decisions that affected your life, without giving you much choice. I’m sorry for that part.

You didn’t choose the divorce, though, did you? Sophie asked, her voice small. Dad did, because of her. Rebecca hesitated.

She’d been careful not to vilify her ex-husband to the children, even when his affair with his much younger colleague had been the catalyst for their split. Relationships are complicated, Sophie. But no, I didn’t choose for our family to break up.

Sophie leaned against her mother slightly. I don’t really hate it here. Not all of it, anyway.

No, Rebecca smiled faintly. What parts don’t you hate? The drawings on my wall. Mrs. Wilson.

The way you can see so many stars at night. She paused. The treehouse has potential too, I guess.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like a significant peace offering. What are we going to do about all this? Sophie gestured at the flooded basement. Rebecca took a deep breath.

First, we’re going to have breakfast. Then we’re going to make a list. And then we’re going to figure it out, one problem at a time.

As they turned to head back upstairs, Rebecca’s phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced down to see dozens of responses to her late-night Instagram post messages of encouragement, advice about flood damage, and even offers of help from local followers who recognized the Wilson house. One comment in particular caught her eye.

Every renovation has a moment when you want to give up. That’s usually right before the breakthrough. Hang in there, Evelyn W. Mrs. Wilson was on Instagram? Rebecca hadn’t even known the elderly woman owned a computer.

The simple message brought tears to her eyes, not of despair this time, but of gratitude. Perhaps they weren’t as alone in this as she’d feared. What is it? Sophie asked, noticing her mother’s expression.

Rebecca showed her the phone. It seems we have more support than I realized. By afternoon, the extent of the storm damage had become clear in the harsh light of day.

Beyond the basement flooding, a section of the newly repaired roof had been compromised, several windows were leaking, and the yard had turned into a muddy swamp. The power remained out, with the electric company estimating restoration by evening. Rebecca sat at the kitchen table, calculator in hand, trying to figure out how to stretch their limited budget to cover these new disasters.

No matter how she juggled the numbers, they came up short. A knock at the door interrupted her calculations. She opened it to find Daniel and behind him, a small group of people she didn’t recognize.

Hope you don’t mind the company, Daniel said. Word got around town about the storm damage. These folks wanted to help.

A middle-aged woman stepped forward. I’m Linda from the hardware store, Frank’s wife. We brought some fans to help dry things out once the power’s back.

She gestured to a truck parked in the driveway, loaded with equipment. An older man in overalls introduced himself next. Jim Peterson…