Right after my husband left for his business trip, my six-year-old gripped my hand and quietly said, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

“They will secure the perimeter but they won’t stay inside a charred ruin all night,” she countered.

“Dominic will be at a hotel pretending to grieve,” she added.

Toby sat up on the bed. “I am going with you,” he said firmly.

“No, it is too dangerous,” I told him.

“Mom, I know where he hides the extra things. I watch him,” the boy said.

Sarah looked at me and then at the child. “He is right. We don’t have time for hesitation,” she said.

I looked at my brave son. “Okay, but you stay with me every second,” I warned.

We left after the sun went down. Sarah drove us back to the neighborhood but parked several blocks away.

“You have twenty minutes. If I honk the horn, you run,” she said.

Toby and I moved through the shadows of the backyards. The smell of the house was even worse now.

The back door was warped but I managed to push it open. Inside, the house was a graveyard of our memories.

We climbed the stairs carefully because the wood was soaked and weak. We reached the office and I shoved the door open.

The safe was visible because the bookshelf had burned away. I punched in the numbers.

Green light. The door swung open.