At 2 a.m., we rushed to a house fire—flames everywhere, a child possibly trapped. I found her under a desk, barely breathing. As I carried her out, she whispered something I couldn’t hear. Later, an EMT said, “She keeps saying your name—Liam.”
I didn’t know her. Her name was Ava. No family came to the hospital. But when I visited the next day, her words stopped me cold: “Mommy said if I was scared, to call for Liam.” Her mom? Natalie—my first love, the one I left years ago.
Her birth certificate listed no father. A DNA test confirmed the truth: Ava was my daughter.
Natalie never told me—and now she was gone. Ava had no one else. CPS placed her with me, and I began the adoption process. It wasn’t easy, but I never looked back.
Six months later, it was official. We celebrated with her favorite ice cream—mint chip and pickles. That night, she left a drawing in my jacket: us holding hands in front of a fire. It read, “You came. You always will.”
And she was right.
Because sometimes, love finds you—right in the flames.
