You might be wondering why my face looks the way it does. It’s because I ran into a fire to save my children.
It was an ordinary day. I’d just finished work and stopped by the supermarket to pick up a few things for my daughters, completely unaware of the danger waiting at home. My wife had accidentally left the stove on, and it sparked a fire. My phone rang as I was nearing home, and my heart sank when I heard the news.
When I arrived, my first question was about my kids—my greatest fear was for their safety. My wife, tears streaming down her face, told me they were still inside. The Phoenix Fire Department was on its way, but no one was moving. I couldn’t just stand there. The thought of my twin daughters trapped in that blaze was unbearable. My wife pointed me to their location, her voice trembling.
I made up my mind—I had to save my babies. Despite my wife’s pleas to stop, I stripped off my jacket, doused myself with water to stay protected, and rushed through the front door. Inside, it was pitch black, the air thick with smoke. Breathing was a struggle, but I didn’t need to see. I knew my home by heart. I found my girls in their room, crying but mercifully untouched by the flames, though smoke was creeping in. I wrapped them in a wet blanket, held them close to my chest, and turned to escape.
The fire had worsened, blocking every exit. But by some miracle, I pushed through, shielding my daughters as we ran through the flames. When we made it out, they were unscathed—not a single burn or scratch on them. I collapsed, unconscious, and spent two days in a coma. When I woke, my face bore the scars of that day.
Do I regret it? Not for a second. My children are safe, and that’s all that matters. They’re my world. So please, don’t focus on my scars—join me in thanking God for saving us.
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