I told him my story — the one I never speak about. How my own house burned when I was eight. How my father shoved me out a window and told me to run for help. How the roof collapsed before he and my baby sister could escape. How I spent years believing I had killed them by doing exactly what they told me to do. Marcus’s crying softened to a trembling silence. Then, without warning, he hurled himself into my arms. I wrapped him in my vest and held him, rocking him gently while the firefighters stood around us, their faces wet and broken. He whispered over and over that he wanted his mother, and all I could do was hold him tighter and tell him she had loved him enough to save his life with her final breath.
When child services arrived at sunrise, Marcus refused to let go of my hand. He begged me not to leave him like everyone else had. The social worker saw something in him — and in me — and allowed me to stay with him through the transition… Continue reading…
