The fire started because of a gas leak in the kitchen. It happened in the middle of the night. My father was away on a work trip, so it was just me and my mom in the house. She woke up to the smell of gas, and then the explosion came. She grabbed me from my crib and ran through the smoke, carrying me outside.
I don’t remember the fire itself.
I remember the scars.
They run along one side of her face, down her neck, and across her shoulder. When I was old enough to ask about them, she told me the truth in the plainest way possible.
“The house caught fire. I got you out. That’s all.”
But that wasn’t all.
When my father came home and saw her after she left the hospital, he didn’t thank her for saving me. He didn’t even try to hide what he was feeling. He said he couldn’t live with the reminder. Later, my mother admitted that he also said he still had time to build a different life with someone he could admire.
Then he left.
