Before the fire, life was a series of routines and small burdens.
I worked full-time at the local gas station, juggling early shifts and late nights, while Mom kept the house running despite her worsening arthritis.
Our family banked on the quiet comfort of predictability—school runs, grocery runs, bills paid just on time.
The fire shattered more than our home; it fractured the rhythm and security we’d clung to.
The cold attitude from the insurance adjusters and city officials added to the tension.
They treated us like numbers or nuisances, seldom answering questions fully or returning calls promptly.
The landlord who owned neighboring properties barely acknowledged our presence, and neighbors whispered but kept their distance.
This silence felt like a wall, separating us from any real support or empathy.
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