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.

He unlocked our front door and the house swallowed them both. “Mom, how do they have a key?” Toby whispered.

I could not answer him because the truth was too heavy to speak. Then I smelled it through the cracked window.

The scent of gasoline drifted toward us on the night breeze. A thin line of gray smoke curled from the upstairs window.

My heart seized in my chest as fire bloomed inside the living room. It climbed the walls with a merciless speed.

Sirens began to wail in the far distance. The van sped away from the curb and disappeared around the corner.

Toby wrapped his arms around my waist as I collapsed onto the pavement. I stared at the inferno that used to be our sanctuary.

My phone vibrated in my hand. It was another text from Dominic.

“Just landed. Hope you and Toby are sleeping well. Love you guys,” the message read.

I stared at the screen and then at the burning house. In that moment, I understood the terrifying truth.

If I had not believed my son at the airport, we would have been inside that house. We would have been asleep in our beds.