Mang Kaloy grabbed me. “Don’t! It’s dangerous! We’ll try to get inside!”
“Let me go! That’s my mother! My mother!” I struggled, my whole body shaking.
I heard the explosion of a kerosene container. People screamed. The flames were nearly reaching the roof. The heat felt like it was melting my skin even from a distance.
Then I heard it—a weak voice, barely audible.
“C—child…”
“Mom!” I cried. “You’re there! Hold on!”
“No one goes in!” the village captain ordered. “But—men, come with me to the back! Let’s break in through the bedroom!”
They ran to the other side. I stood there trembling and crying, not knowing where to hold on to hope.
“Mom… don’t let go… please…” I whispered.
After a few minutes that felt like a lifetime, someone shouted from behind the house.
“We found her! She’s alive! Help us!”
I ran. There was Mother, nearly unconscious, coughing and shaking, lying near the window they had forced open. I hugged her tightly, as if I would never let her go.
“Child…” she said weakly. “I thought… I wouldn’t see you again.”
“I won’t leave you, Mom… I won’t leave you…” I sobbed.
As we helped her move away from the fire, I felt something melt inside my chest—not pain, but the realization that I had almost lost the person I loved most.
The next day, our house was nothing but ashes. We had nothing left. My wooden toy, my old comic books, the pillow Mother had embroidered for me—everything had turned to ash.
But when I held Mother’s hand, I realized something was still there. The most important thing.
The village captain approached us. “We’re sorry for what happened… but there’s good news too. The whole village will contribute to building you a new house. We won’t abandon you.”
I was shocked. Neighbors came carrying boxes, wood, tin sheets, food. Some gave money. Others offered to do the work themselves.
Mother cried. “We have nothing to give in return…”
“Don’t say that,” Aling Sima replied. “You’ve been kind to everyone, and you’re a good mother. We won’t allow you to lose your home.”
I knelt beside Mother and hugged her, and we cried together—not because we lost our house, but because of the love of the people around us.
A few weeks later, our new home stood tall. Stronger. Brighter. Better. It wasn’t the same as before, but in return, I learned a lesson I would never forget:
A house can burn. Possessions can disappear. But the people who love you? Your family? Neighbors willing to help? They never disappear.
On the first night in our new home, I hugged Mother.
“Mom… if you hadn’t asked me to fetch water, maybe—”
She covered my lips with her hand. “Child. You’re here. That’s what matters.”
And for the first time since the fire, I fell asleep with a smile—not because of a new roof or new walls, but because my mother was still beside me.
And because we had a home stronger than any wood that could ever burn:
A home built of love.
And of people who never left us.