The scent of smoke still clung to my clothes. My babies were safe, but everything else—gone.
I stood in the freezing night air, barefoot, holding my five-year-old, Luna, close. My baby, Mateo, was wrapped in a firefighter’s jacket, cradled in the arms of a stranger. His uniform read A. Calderon, and he was speaking softly to Mateo, his gloved hand shielding my son’s tiny face from the cold.
I didn’t even remember handing him my baby. Everything had happened so fast. The fire, the sirens, neighbors gathering outside, whispering.
One moment, I had a home. The next, I had nothing.
Luna sniffled against my shoulder. “Mommy, where will we sleep now?”
I didn’t have an answer. My husband had been gone for six months. I had barely managed to cover rent—had covered rent. Past tense. Rent didn’t matter if there was no home left.
That’s when Calderon stepped forward, still holding Mateo like he was the most precious thing in the world. He looked at me, his brown eyes steady.
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice calm despite the chaos, “I have something for you.”