THE TUESDAY THE FIRE TOOK EVERYTHING
The fire took them on a Tuesday.

One hour earlier, Tessa had been reading bedtime stories, Michael curled against her in dinosaur pajamas, clutching his blue truck like it was treasure.

An hour later, I was standing barefoot on the sidewalk in my warehouse parka, watching orange flames swallow every window of our house.

“Sir, you need to step back.”

“My family is in there!”

Two firefighters held me while I screamed until my voice shredded.

It didn’t matter.

They were gone.

A FUNERAL WITHOUT WORDS
Four days later, I stood at the front of the church.

My mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Pastor Pierce stopped me at the door afterward. Calm eyes. Gray hair.

“Don’t turn right or left,” he said. “Just walk straight.”

I wanted to grab his collar and ask what kind of God lets a three-year-old burn.

Instead, I walked.