As a young mother, she typically woke to the same predictable rhythm. She’d wake up, get dressed, wake up Deklynn, change her diaper, and make breakfast. Routine was comforting, especially in the fragile season of early motherhood. This morning was different, though. Her dad was visiting from West Virginia. His presence shifted the house’s rhythm. Because he was there, she slept in until 9 a.m. When she woke, she found Deklynn happy and content in her pappy’s arms, both of them smiling.
She took her daughter to change her diaper as her dad got ready to take his dogs outside. At the front door, he stopped and said he could smell smoke. She walked over as he opened the door, and the smell of something burning got stronger. Across the hall, neighbors opened their door, apologizing for having burnt their breakfast. Her dad laughed, closed the door, and they just shrugged their shoulders and went back to their morning chores.
Two minutes later, her father repeated something. This time, he sounded very serious. It smelled worse. She entered the kitchen with him, and they did a little investigation together. When she opened the bottom cabinet under the sink, thick smoke billowed out, filling the space alarmingly. The dad was screaming that the house was on fire, and they had to get out.
Then fear took over. Her mind shrank to one thought: get her baby out. She scooped up Deklynn, still in just a diaper, wrapped her in a big blanket, and ran out of the house barefoot. She didn’t think about shoes or stuff-just distance. Thankfully, her dad still had his suitcases packed near the door. He rushed them outside and went back for the keys.
They circled the house, making sure the other tenants were out, and called 911. It was a long few minutes until the firefighters showed up. When the trucks finally pulled up, she felt a wave of relief. She thought it was over, that they would extinguish the fire and she could go back inside. But that wasn’t how it went. The water pipes were frozen, and for almost twenty minutes, there was nothing anyone could do.
She watched as flames consumed everything she owned. By the time the fire was extinguished, nothing was left worth saving. Friends immediately stepped in, keeping Deklynn while the Red Cross worked with them. A local church provided a hotel stay for a few days, a kindness she would never forget. That first night, she strangely felt numb, almost peaceful at times. She fell asleep holding her baby close.
The next morning was different. She woke with tears already falling, her chest tight with grief and fear. She slipped into the bathroom, not wanting to wake either her daughter or her father, and cried, silently, the kind of cry that shakes from the inside out. Questions raced through her mind-where would they live, how would she afford clothes, furniture, groceries, a future? She had already been struggling before the fire, and now everything felt impossible.
When she came out, her father was sitting up in bed. She threw herself onto his arms, crying and asking what she was supposed to do. He hugged her and reassured her she would make it through; she only had to start looking. And they did. By the day’s end, she found a small apartment. It wasn’t home, but it was a start. Eventually, she moved closer to her mother and began again. Today, she resides in a warm house with her daughter, her newborn son, her fiancé, and two dogs. She’s working a steady job at a hospital nearby. But when she came across an old photo recently of Deklynn smiling at the window of their burned home, it stopped her. In all the loss, she had once overlooked the most essential truth. The fire took everything—but it didn’t take her daughter. February 24, 2014. The day she lost everything. Almost.
