The call came just after 3 AM. Firefighters — men who run into burning homes without hesitation — were begging for help because a five-year-old boy wouldn’t stop screaming that he had killed his mother. When I arrived, rain dripping from my leather vest, I saw seasoned rescuers standing outside with red eyes and trembling hands. Inside, in the corner of the soot-stained kitchen, sat Marcus. His tiny body shook violently, his pajamas soaked with tears, his voice cracking as he repeated the same unbearable sentence: “I killed my mommy.” He thought obeying her last words — “Run outside and call 911” — meant he had abandoned her. No firefighter could reach him. So I didn’t touch him. I just sat on the floor near him and told him softly that I wasn’t there to take him away. Slowly, his eyes met mine, desperate and exhausted.Continue reading…
