The old electrical wiring behind the refrigerator had sparked during the night, and by the time anyone realized what was happening, flames had already spread across the cabinets.
My mother was asleep upstairs after working a double shift at the hospital.
My little brother was only four years old.
I screamed until my throat hurt, racing through the hallway toward his bedroom while smoke filled every corner of the house.
I managed to pull him out.
Then I ran back inside.
Mom.
I couldn't leave without her.
I barely remember what happened next.
Only heat.
Smoke.
The sound of breaking glass.
Then nothing.
Waking Up Again
When I opened my eyes, everything hurt.
Machines beeped around me.
Bandages wrapped most of my face, neck, and left arm.
The doctors explained I had suffered severe burns while trying to reach my mother.
She survived.
So did my brother.
The firefighters later told us that if I hadn't gone back inside, my mother probably wouldn't have made it out.
People called me brave.
I didn't feel brave.
I felt scared.
Mostly, I wanted my old face back.
Learning to Live Again
Recovery wasn't measured in days.
It was measured in years.
Skin grafts.
Physical therapy.
Painful treatments.
Compression garments that felt impossible to wear during summer.
More surgeries than I could count.
