I thought my husband and I would be together forever. But when the fire happened, it changed me physically—and changed his mind. My husband left me because of how I looked, but in the end, I got the last laugh.
It was a chilly fall evening when the fire started. I still remember the sharp scent of wood smoke mingling with the distant laughter of children playing on the street. Then, it caught up with me, forever altering my life. The house we were renting had an old, unreliable furnace. I’d told Evan we should have it checked, but, as always, he brushed off my concerns. Being married to a medical student meant he thought he knew better about everything. That night, I lit a few candles in the living room. The power was flickering, and I wanted to make the space feel cozy and warm.
Lost in a book with a mug of tea in hand, I barely noticed the wind rattling the windows. Then, I smelled something acrid. The fire spread faster than I could process, climbing up the walls like a living thing. In my panic, I knocked over the candles, making it worse. I screamed for Evan, who thundered down the stairs, his face pale with fear. For the first time, I saw him truly shaken.
“Get out!” he shouted, but I was frozen in terror, fumbling with the fire extinguisher. A beam from the ceiling crashed down, pinning me to the ground. The heat was unbearable, blistering my skin. Evan managed to pull me out just as the flames engulfed the room. Outside, the cool air hit my burning skin as sirens wailed in the distance. The pain was searing, but I was alive.
