The fire started in the attic wiring in the middle of the night, silently spreading through the insulation until the smoke alarms finally screamed into life. My wife and I had barely enough time to grab our robes and run out the back door before the roof began to collapse. We stood barefoot on the cold sidewalk, watching the fire department hose down the shell of the house where we had raised our children. It is a uniquely hollow, devastating feeling to watch your entire life turn into smoke and ash. In those agonizing minutes, I mentally cataloged everything that was being destroyed: the photo albums from the 80s, the antique furniture inherited from my parents, and the children’s growth chart marked on the doorframe. By the time the sun came up, the house was a smoldering, blackened ruin.
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