She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom overlooking the garden. The heat was unbearable. My eyes watered, and every breath felt like swallowing dust.
I remember my mother trying to open the window.
I remember the sound of sirens.
I remember a firefighter lifting me into his arms while I screamed that my mother was still inside.
Then everything became a blur.
I woke up in a hospital with a plastic bracelet around my wrist and my father sitting beside my bed.
His shirt smelled of smoke.
He held my hand and told me I was going to be fine.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She’s being treated, sweetheart.”
“What happened?”
He looked away.
“There was an accident.”
That was the first time I heard him use that word.
It would not be the last.
My mother, Laura, spent weeks in the hospital. The fire had badly burned her face, neck, and arms. She underwent emergency treatment, followed by months of recovery and years of additional procedures.
