I simply sat down across from him.
Rain dripped from my hair, soaking into the ash-covered floor.
He kept his little face hidden behind his arms, rocking himself back and forth.
“I’m not here to take you away,” I told him, keeping my voice as soft as I could. “I’m just here to sit with you until you’re ready to talk.”
His rocking slowed.
Barely — but enough.
I didn’t expect him to look at me so soon.
But he did.
And the expression on his face — that raw, world-ending guilt — was the same one I had carried inside me for decades.
I Told Him the Story I Had Spent My Whole Life Trying Not to Say Out Loud
“Marcus,” I murmured, “I need to tell you something about me.”
The firefighters froze. They had never heard me tell this story.
“When I was eight,” I began, “my house burned too.”
