Rain slammed into the small yellow house windows like it hungered for it. Sarah paced down the length of their bedroom, phone pressed to her ear as another voicemail started playing.

"Dr. Mendes, please call me back as soon as—"

A crack of thunder drowned out her words. Below, Olivia shrieked—not with fear, but with delight as Lucas undoubtedly played the storm for an invading army.

Sarah hung up and pressed her hands to her eyes. The biopsy results were three days late. Three maddening days of leaping whenever the phone rang, of glimpsing Lucas pretend not to be watching, of trying to get food past the lump in her throat.

A second crash of thunder shook the house. Sarah descended the stairs to discover the living room remade as a blanket fort, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating it. Olivia's giggles rolled deep within the walls of the cotton palace.

Lucas emerged from the fortress on hands and knees, his hair sticking out in every direction. "My liege," he spoke, bowing low. "Your palace awaits."

Sarah's lips twitched, even against her will. "Can a queen fit in there?"

Olivia's face appeared over the top of two blankets. "We built you a throne!"

In the fort, Lucas had set up all their pillows into a nest. A steaming cup of tea waited beside a plate of slightly flattened peanut butter cookies—Olivia's workmanship in the uneven shapes.

Sarah's throat closed up as she burrowed into her pillow throne. Olivia scooped onto her lap, rain smells and graham crackers. "Daddy says the thunder is just angels bowling."

"Really?" Sarah glanced up over the crown of their daughter's head to Lucas's eyes. Those quiet eyes, that unspoken promise, had gotten her from the beginning—the promise that no matter what came next, they'd navigate it all together.

The power chose that moment to deteriorate.

Olivia inhaled sharply as they were surrounded by blackness. Lucas's hand grasped Sarah's in the dark, his fingers interlacing with hers.

"Don't be scared," he breathed, his fingers tightening on hers. "I've got—"

A narrow shaft of light cut through the blackness as Olivia gleefully illuminated her own face from down below. "I'm a ghost!"

Their giggles resounded within the fort, chasing away the fury of the storm. Luna produced even more flashlights, and soon they were having shadow puppet shows on the blanket walls—Lucas's unexpectedly adept bunny, Olivia's blob dinosaur ("It's a dinosaur, Mommy!"), Sarah's attempt at a dog that looked like a mangled horse.

Eventually, after they'd put Olivia into bed fast asleep with a little extra nightlight or two, Sarah stood at the kitchen window, watching the rain. Lucas moved up behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin on her shoulder.

"Whatever the news is," he whispered against her neck, "we'll get through it."

Sarah shifted over in his arms, pressing her face into the center of his chest. The scent of him—sawdust and soap and home—anchored her as the storm raged on outside.

The phone may ring with news tomorrow. Or next week. The waiting may stretch on and on. But so might this—the shadow puppets and forts under blankets, the teaching Lucas received in brewing her tea just shy of scorching, the sound of Olivia's laughter carrying through the blackest nights.

Sarah lifted her head when lightning flashed, illuminating Lucas's face—the set jaw, the lines at the eyes, the love that had weathered so many storms already.

She kissed him then, filling it with everything left unsaid. When they broke apart, the electricity flickered back on, lighting up the kitchen.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. But in their little yellow house, they stood bathed in light—together, not untouched by the storm but unbroken.

No matter how severely the winds could howl, their roots had been planted deep. And that, Sarah found as Lucas rested his forehead against hers, made all the difference.