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

couldn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he didn’t look away. “Everything in that unit is gone.”

Gone. The word didn’t make sense. Seven years of my life were in that apartment—photos of my grandparents, the only ones I had; the guitar my late stepfather had given me when I was sixteen; my college diploma; my laptop with every project, every memory,continue reading …