I was barely a year old when a house fire changed my life forever.
An electrical fault turned our home into an inferno. I don’t remember the flames, the smoke, or the sirens. I only know what the neighbors later told me.
My parents never made it out.
My grandfather, Tim, did.
He ran into the burning house before firefighters arrived and came back carrying me in a blanket.
He suffered serious smoke inhalation that night, but by the next morning, he was already asking when he could take me home.
From that day forward, Grandpa wasn’t simply my grandfather.
He was my parent.
He packed my lunches and tucked handwritten notes inside them.
He learned how to braid my hair by watching online tutorials.
He attended every school play, every parent-teacher conference, every award ceremony.
Whenever I looked into the audience, he was there.
Clapping louder than everyone else.
When I was little, we used to dance in the kitchen.
