“Please don't go," I said. "Where's my mommy?" I was five when Firefighter Sarah Lawson pulled me out of that burning house. I remember the smoke, the noise, the heat. I was crying hard.
She held me tight and said, "I got you. You're okay." My parents didn't make it. I woke up in the hospital, scared and alone. Sarah came every day. She brought me applesauce and little toy trucks. She didn't have to, but she did.
One day, she said, "I'm not ready to be a mom, but I can't let you go." And she didn't. She adopted me, painted my room pink, and called me her girl. Now I wear the same uniform.
People ask why I joined. I just smile and say,
"Because my mom showed me how to show up."
