Every morning, Gwen Torres visited the front desk of the Holiday Inn where she had holed up with six family members. Could they stay just one more night?
Though they had a voucher from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, the place was full. The hotel could give her family just one more night in the two rooms they shared. Torres, 50, would repeat her request the next day. And the days that followed.
Eventually, she managed to book a longer stay. But after two months, they would have to check out by Dec. 6. Torres didn’t know where they would go next.
Every spare dollar was spent replacing clothes, hygiene items and food, and on application fees for new housing. Her savings were running out.
In the aftermath of Hurricane Milton, dozens of homes in Tampa’s inland Forest Hills neighborhood were trapped under stormwater and sewage for days, breeding mold and decay.
Torres lived there for 25 years, minutes from her job as a secretary at Chamberlain High School. Her parents bought the house for her, just down the street from their own. She raised her children, and continued supporting her family there until it was wrecked by floodwaters.
The destruction of the flood for residents like Torres was just the beginning.
Months full of uncertainty and exhaustion have followed: crammed into hotels, waiting for FEMA assistance and relying on dwindling GoFundMe drives.
While much of the rest of the world appears to be moving on, Torres and her neighbors remain unmoored, continuing to pay a toll that’s been physical, emotional and financial.
“The first week or two, everybody’s wanting to help and being supportive,” Torres said. “But then real life settles in and everybody goes back to their life. This is my reality. We’re homeless.”
A neighborhood caught off guard
The floodwaters started rising in Forest Hills when three pumps at Curiosity Creek, the largest pond in the city, failed. Two of the pumps had no backup generator. The other did, but a switch failed to turn it on.
It took days for the water to recede.
FEMA designates the area as “Flood Zone X,” meaning it has a 0.2% or less chance of flooding. Residents there thought they were safe.
It was a brutal confluence for a neighborhood long considered an affordable haven for school employees, tradespeople and working class families.
“This community was hit right between the eyes,” said City Council member Luis Viera, who represents the area.
Torres had rented her home on Hamner Avenue from her parents, paying the $1,000 mortgage herself, since 1999. Though it was close to three different retention ponds, it had never flooded. Like many of her neighbors, she didn’t have flood insurance.
When disaster struck, eight people were living with Torres, including her two adult sons and youngest daughter, her daughter-in-law and four grandchildren. Her 33-year-old son, Christopher, and 4-year-old grandson both have special needs.
Three days after Milton, her oldest daughter, Aysia Parker, 31, approached the back of the home on foot from several blocks away. The streets were still under water.
In the sopping backyard, Parker could smell sewage and mold from outside. Crawling through a window, she immediately saw the mildew crawling up the walls and roaches scurrying in the corners. Her family’s belongings were caked in sludge.
“I’m seeing everything and I’m realizing there is nothing they can take from here,” Parker said. “Everything in the house had to go.”
The family piled heirloom furniture, clothing and boxes of baby photos on the curb. Torres’ car in the driveway was flooded and totaled. Parker developed an eye infection from the bacteria. All of the children got hand, foot and mouth disease.
Torres said her parents sold the home at a loss.
FEMA provided $770 to pay for immediate needs — but the sum didn’t go far with nine people, Torres said. Unable to cook or drive, they relied on takeout and Uber. With costs compounding, she started a GoFundMe account, which raised about $4,000, and kept applying for more FEMA assistance.
“You don’t know what to do next,” she said. “You’re stuck waiting on others when you just want to be able to move on and get on with your life.”
‘Reality sets in’
Beverly Kieny, president of the Forest Hills Neighborhood Association, called it “purgatory.”
Dozens of Forest Hills residents are still hoping the storm’s trauma will pass. They’re waiting on funds from FEMA, from insurance providers, from nonprofits and GoFundMe drives. Some found contractors, but are priced out or can’t get onto their schedules. Many still live in hotels while their homes are stripped to the studs.
“It seemed like everything would be done very quickly. The city was there, everybody was there to help in the beginning,” Kieny said. “But reality sets in.”
At community meetings, residents say applying to FEMA is its own full-time job. The process of submitting the correct forms can be arduous, and denials are common.
Kieny noted there are several churches and nonprofits providing grants. But most people don’t know what’s available. There’s no instruction manual for what to apply for and when.
Wesley Thompson, a media relations specialist at FEMA, pointed to Disaster Recovery Centers established in the region where people can receive help in-person and learn about other resources while they wait for aid.
Thompson said the agency has over 1,600 responders across the state to respond to the considerable need. There isn’t a specific timeline for applications to be processed, he said, because every case is different.
“I know it is frustrating,” he said. “We’re on the ground working day and night, long hours to make sure people don’t feel alone.”
The frustration among residents is understandable, said Tampa Mayor Jane Castor. City workers helped people find places to stay. Volunteers cleared homes. But finding long-term relief will take more time, she said.
Viera and city staff are working as fast as possible to put together an assistance package for those in need after Milton, Castor said. The initiative would likely utilize city funding for development and housing to help people bridge insurance deductibles and finance repairs, and for mortgage and rental assistance.
The package would be income-restricted and would benefit affordable enclaves like Forest Hills, Palmetto Beach and Tampa Overlook, the same areas hit especially hard by back-to-back storms. After Hurricane Milton, more than 10,700 individuals applied for FEMA assistance in the postal code 33612, which includes Forest Hills, Overlook and other parts of north Tampa. It is one of the highest concentrations of need in the county.
The assistance package will ideally roll out in the next couple of months, Castor said.
“It takes some time to get things up and moving,” she said.
The emotional toll
Patti Branham, 66, has lived in Forest Hills for years with her husband, Ernest, 65, in the house he was born in. Their son had just come to stay after his own place flooded during Hurricane Helene.
It took five days for the family to finally gain access to the home after Milton. They found the place overtaken by mold, cherry floorboards floating in standing water, and a ruined antique vanity mirror that had belonged to Ernest’s grandmother. They lost two vehicles and countless records for the plumbing business they run out of the home.
“We literally watched four dump trucks take stuff out of my front yard, and there goes your life,” Patti Branham said.
Without flood insurance, Branham said the family had to pay roughly $10,000 for mold remediation, and thousands more for drywall and other construction. They received some FEMA assistance but have relied on their retirement savings to finance the bulk of repairs. Branham has saved every receipt in hopes of receiving reimbursements. The two were planning to retire next year.
Recovery is a long and ongoing slog, Branham said. Many of her neighbors are only now starting to clear the mold from her homes — “probably because they can’t afford it.” The process has been devastating and exhausting, she said.
“I have no idea the next time I’ll be able to sit down at the dining room table with my husband,” she said.
The losses aren’t only material. Residents who spoke to the Tampa Bay Times described intense, indescribable emotional distress. Anxiety is high. Relationships are strained. A feeling of hopelessness persists.
Scrolling through photos, Marilyn Menendez Arnett, 62, tries to hold back tears. As an anniversary gift from her late husband, her house was remodeled with an open concept, complete with new floors, pristine cabinets and new furniture. What once was sparkling and bright is filled with muck and mold.
“Losing him was the worst thing that’s ever happened,” she said, through tears. “Until this.”
Recovering from a knee replacement, she hobbled through the rising water with a walker and a rake during the storm, trying to clear a drain of debris. It was no use. She lay on her couch and watched helplessly as water seeped beneath the front door.
Even with flood insurance, the hits kept coming. She gave a contractor $5,500 from her payout. He came to the house twice but completed only a fraction of the demolition. He told her to buy vinegar for the moldy walls. Then he never came back.
As the mold takes over her home, Menendez Arnett pays more than her monthly mortgage to rent a renovated shed-turned-apartment in Seminole Heights. She subsists on her Social Security check. She has applications for assistance from places like FEMA and Hope Florida.
She sleeps on an air mattress on the floor of the small, square room, unable to climb into the lofted bed.
“I cry every day,” she said. “I’m in pain every day.”
The uncertainty continues
They had one night left in the hotel.
Parker decided to move in with Torres and Christopher, to be close by and help with all of the changes. She found a townhouse in Wesley Chapel — brand new, clean, a fresh start. But the landlord was hesitant, Parker said, given their precarious finances.
Finally, the phone rang. They were given the OK to move the next day.
Torres and Parker spent roughly $6,000 on moving costs and upfront fees. A few days later, they huddled on a tiny green sofa barely large enough for the two of them. Parker brought it from her studio apartment in Lady Lake, south of Ocala, one of only a few pieces of furniture in the empty home.
“If we had not found this place, we would have been on the street,” Torres said, her voice echoing off the white surfaces and sharp corners.
The rest of the family was fanned out throughout the region, using savings and GoFundMe money to cover moving fees. Still without a vehicle and now a 40-minute drive from Chamberlain High School, Torres took an unpaid leave of absence from the school district.
Being so far away is an adjustment, she said, thinking of the last time she saw her grandson.
“He instantly grabbed my hand and was yanking me to go to the car so he could climb in and come with me,” she said, tearing up. “He doesn’t understand. That was heartbreaking.”
Having a place to live is a relief. But the pressure hasn’t stopped. Two months after the storm, they still have pending applications for assistance with rent, moving costs and replacing Torres’ car. She spends hours on the phone with FEMA to check on their status.
“I’ve always worked. I’ve always provided for my family,” she said. “This was a complete shock for me, having to be dependent and trying to figure these kinds of things out. It was completely overwhelming and devastating.”
Christopher comes downstairs in Harry Potter pajamas and sits between them on the sofa. Torres assures him one day, they’ll decorate his bedroom the way he likes and rebuild his collection of DVDs and movie memorabilia — all lost in the flood.
Her savings are gone. But her next priority is finding furniture. Appliances. A broom. Paying the rent in two weeks.
“We have to rebuild from the bottom up,” she said.
