Many years later, when we could’ve let it go, my family made the choice to keep it. We wanted it to stay in the family, to preserve all of the love and effort that had been poured into it. Watching my grandparents dedicate their lives to making that house a home—fixing the roof, painting the walls, planting flowers in the garden—shaped me in ways I never fully understood until I, too, became a caretaker of it. Every time I touched the walls, every time I worked on the house, I felt that same love they’d put in.

I didn’t know February 8th would be the day I lost my home—the place that had held our roots for so long. 

I never thought the last time I’d walk through those doors would be under the shadow of a fire, as I hurried to bring my family to safety. The walls that had sheltered so many friends and families, the floors that had carried our laughter, the rooms that held our lives—reduced to ash. I never imagined I’d have to say goodbye to my home, on my knees, sifting through the ashes, desperately searching for things I can’t replace.

It feels like I’ve lost a piece of myself. I can feel the weight of all the memories—the birthday parties, the family game nights, those quiet nights spent simply being together. Each one weighs heavy on my heart. I miss the familiar smell of my home that always made me feel safe. I miss the little sounds, like the five ticks my heater makes just before it kicks on. I just I miss my home.”