My Apartment Burned Down. My Parents Said, “Not Our Problem.” Then the Fire Investigator Called.

Long. Empty. “That’s unfortunate.”

Unfortunate. Like I’d spilled coffee on my shirt.

I heard rustling, then my stepfather Richard’s voice in the background. Patricia handed him the phone.

“Evelyn, what’s going on?”

I told him again—the fire, the smoke, standing on the sidewalk with nothing but my phone and the clothes on my back. I was crying now, I realized.continue reading …