The call came in at 2:17 a.m., and I thought it would be just another routine welfare check in a building I’d walked a dozen times before. But when I pushed open that freezing apartment door and heard a baby screaming with everything he had left, I had no idea I was stepping into the moment that would quietly, irrevocably reshape the next sixteen years of my life. I’m Everett, forty-eight now, but that night I was thirty-two and still wearing grief like an extra layer of body armor. Two years earlier a house fire had stolen my wife and our infant daughter in a single, merciless night. The kind of loss that doesn’t just break you; it hollows you out and leaves you waiting for the next blow….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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