My name is Amanda, and my husband Tyler has been a firefighter for nine years. Because of his demanding schedule, birthdays and anniversaries often had to be celebrated late. Tyler always said birthdays were “just another day,” but I knew he appreciated the little things.
This year, his birthday fell during a 24-hour shift. I bought his favorite cake, a dozen balloons, and drove to the station, planning to surprise and embarrass him in front of his crew. But when I walked inside, nobody laughed. Instead, everyone looked uncomfortable and avoided my eyes.
“Is Tyler around?” I asked. Captain Reyes finally approached me. “You don’t know yet?” he asked. My heart dropped. Tyler wasn’t at the station. He had been injured during a warehouse fire and transported to St. Matthew’s Hospital.
I rushed to the hospital and found him awake, bruised, with a fractured shoulder, three cracked ribs, and a concussion. I was relieved and furious at the same time. Then Tyler explained what had happened. During the fire, he heard a little girl crying upstairs.
