Sometimes I still can’t say those words out loud without feeling like the floor disappears beneath me.
Nine months ago, my husband died in a fire.
He was a firefighter. The kind who never hesitated, never stepped back when someone needed help. The kind who kissed our son goodbye every morning like it was a promise he’d return.
But on that night, he didn’t.
There had been an apartment fire across town. Everyone thought the building had been cleared until someone heard a little girl crying on the second floor.
She was eight years old.
The same age as our son, Andrew.
My husband ran back inside without even stopping to think.
Continue on the next page:
