Published: 2025-08-23

It’s been three weeks since the ceiling started leaking. We lived in peace, then the rain came. At first, it was no more than one drop, seeping through concrete and crashing into the floor. It couldn’t be that serious, we thought, maybe the neighbor’s cat dropped a glass of water. We put a bucket under it and went on with our lives, but that was far from the end of it.

The mighty drop, penetrating the thick cement, ran as a man runs to catch the subway, and succeeded. In just a few days, its solitary endeavor became a social event; it wasn’t a single drop anymore, but a small stream coming out of the ceiling.

This could not be the cat’s doing anymore. We didn’t panic, at least not yet. The might of the bucket was as great as that of the stream; everything was under control. But it wasn’t...

My wife told me that I should take care of it, and she meant by yesterday. I opened the door to the closet and saw it. Forgotten in a corner, like an old toy during man’s puberty, and yet, so reliable. I grabbed it, my trusty ladder, and took it for a spin.

Upon further inspection, the ceiling wasn’t damaged — not even a single crack — and yet water was pouring out of it. I did what I could with my limited knowledge in blue-collar matters, which wasn’t much. The next step was calling a professional. "Don’t worry, honey," I said to my wife. I’ll ask the plumber to teach me how to fix it, then I’ll build a time machine and do it yesterday. I slept on the couch that night.

The next morning, a plumber came to visit. I explained the matter and took him to the living room, where our leakage problem resided. He got on top of Betsy, my old and rusty ladder, and examined the ceiling closely. He came down after a minute and told me we didn’t have any problem. I was dumbfounded. Was this guy this incompetent? Sir, a stream of water has been steadily coming out of that precise spot since Tuesday. I remember I said. Where is it now? He asked me. I looked up and there wasn’t any leakage; the ceiling was perfect that day. Well, what can you tell me about this? I said while placing the bucket in front of his face. What about it? He said. His act, like something taken straight from The Three Stooges, was starting to bother me. The water in it. It came from the leakage. I’m sorry, sir, but that bucket is empty. He said with an accusatory look. He thought me crazy, and in a moment, I’d thought me crazy too. I looked inside the bucket, and effectively, it was empty. Not even a trace of water ever been poured into it.

The plumber told me not to worry; the ceiling was in excellent condition, and no sign of leakage was found. I thanked him, paid him, and he left. I kept muttering while his white van disappeared on the horizon. No leakage, no sign of moisture, no damage to the ceiling…

I didn’t know if I should be happy that the ceiling stopped leaking. Like a visit to the doctor, you don’t want to hear your health is in perfect condition when you’re aching. Still, I let it go. Maybe there was some water trapped over the ceiling, and it found its way out through the concrete. Whatever it was, it was over now. That was the stupidest thought to ever cross my mind.

When my wife came home, I explained what the plumber told me; she was furious. She thought I was making excuses to avoid taking care of the problem. “Like you always do.” She told me. Eventually, she calmed down. I took her to the living room and showed her the ceiling; it was perfect. The leakage has stopped. She apologized for screaming at me early; I told her it didn’t matter and that next time I’ll take care of things sooner. Little did I know that there would not be a next time.

She made our special dinner to celebrate that the ceiling problem was finally solved. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, and orange juice. Our special dinner was breakfast. Life is short; we might as well spoil ourselves. My wife used to say all the time.

The rest of the night went by normally. We finished our dinner, did the dishes, took a shower, and went to bed. We kissed goodnight and told each other I love you, like we always do. Little did we know it was the last time.

It had to be two in the morning; I heard her grunt, and then she started tossing and turning. I didn’t pay much attention to it; I never do. And that’s when it hit me. Literally. Right in the face. A drop of cold water. And then another. And another. I sat down and took my hands to my face. My wife sat too. What is happening? She asked. I had no idea. That’s when it started; water was coming down everywhere. First drops, then small streams, and finally torrents. The sound was deafening. I shouted in her ear. We have to get outta here. The bedroom got soaking-wet real quick. When I got out of bed, the water was up to my heels. I took her hand and we walked to the door, as if trying to cross a river. When we reached the door, she started screaming, but I couldn’t hear her. She pulled me back. I’m half-naked, I can’t go out like this. That’s what she was saying. I kept pulling her arm, but she resisted. I don’t care, just come out, come out. She wouldn’t budge. In the struggle, she managed to free herself and ran back into the room. I shouted. No, get back out here. She was looking through the closet for something to cover herself. I got it. She yelled while waving a soaked night gown in the air. The roof came down on her. I ran. And that’s the last thing she ever said to me. “I got it.”

THE END.