At a raging fire scene, I ran into the flames to protect my stepson. Meanwhile, my wife turned off her phone to attend her ex-husband’s concert. I gave up my chance to escape so my stepson could be rescued. But once he was safe, he ran into his biological father’s arms, crying uncontrollably. To celebrate his survival, the three of them decided to go out for a lavish dinner. They completely forgot about me, the one still struggling to survive in the fire. Standing by the window, surrounded by flames and thick smoke, I watched their backs as they walked away together. I closed my eyes and leaped from the 18th floor. Miraculously, I survived. I chose to divorce her and leave the country. The stepson who once resented my discipline clung to my leg, crying, “Dad, please don’t leave me.” The wife who once dismissed my love grabbed my hand, pleading, “Honey, don’t go.” I was at work when I got a call from my neighbor: “Your apartment is on fire.” My heart sank. Thinking of my wife and stepson, I immediately jumped into my car, speeding home while frantically dialing my wife’s number. But no one answered. The thought of my wife and stepson trapped in the fire made my anxiety skyrocket. I floored the gas pedal. When I finally arrived at our apartment complex, thick black smoke was billowing from the windows on the 18th floor. Ignoring everyone’s attempts to stop me, I couldn’t wait for the firefighters to arrive. I ran straight into the building and up the stairs to our apartment. By the time I reached our floor, I was out of breath, and the hallway was already filled with choking smoke. I yelled my wife’s and stepson’s names, but no one responded. With shaking hands, I pulled out my keys and tried to unlock the door, but the intense heat had warped it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it open. I had no choice but to step back and kick the door with all my strength. The impact sent a sharp pain through my leg, and I felt like my bones might snap. After several desperate attempts, the door finally gave way, and I stumbled inside. The smoke was so thick I could barely see. I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve, shouting my wife’s and stepson’s names as I crouched to avoid the flames. Dodging the fire, limping on my injured leg, I searched through the apartment until I found my stepson huddled in the corner of the living room. He was terrified but unharmed. Relief washed over me as I knelt down and pulled him into my arms. “Tommy, don’t be scared. Daddy’s here to save you.” I grabbed my 8-year-old stepson’s arm, trying to lead him to safety. But Tommy was too scared to move. He clung to me, crying and begging, “Daddy, please carry me!” With no other choice, I lifted him into my arms despite the pain in my leg and started making my way toward the door. I kept calling my wife’s name, hoping she would answer. Thankfully, the firefighters arrived just in time. I handed Tommy over to one of them. As the firefighter held my crying stepson, I wiped the soot off Tommy’s face and asked, “Tommy, where’s your mom? Where is she?” Tommy lowered his head, avoiding my gaze, and whispered, “Mom’s in the bedroom… she’s sleeping.” The flames were spreading rapidly, leaving no time to think. Hearing that my wife was still in the bedroom, I turned back toward the fire without hesitation. The firefighter, holding Tommy with one arm, blocked my path with his other hand and handed me an oxygen mask. “The fire is too dangerous. I’ll go in to rescue her. Put this on and take your son downstairs.” But I shook my head and placed the oxygen mask over Tommy’s face instead. Patting my possibly fractured leg, I pleaded with the firefighter. “My son is too scared to walk on his own, and I can’t carry him down 18 flights of stairs like this. Please, take him to safety. My wife is still in the bedroom—I can’t leave her behind. I’m begging you.” Before the firefighter could respond, I turned and disappeared into the thick smoke. With no choice, the firefighter carried Tommy downstairs, radioing for backup as he went.
Dragging my injured leg, every step sent searing pain through my body, but I couldn’t stop. The fire was raging, and yet my wife wasn’t with our son. Had she passed out somewhere? Or worse, was she already gone? The horrible possibilities pushed me forward, ignoring the pain, as I searched every room. I kept shouting her name, and finally made my way to the bedroom—but the bed was empty. Thinking of her usual habits, I turned and limped toward her studio. When I slammed into the door of her studio, a surge of hot air knocked me to the ground, and the flames instantly engulfed the room. It hit me then—her studio was packed with fabric and over a hundred dresses. Now they were all burning together, feeding the uncontrollable fire. I remembered all the arguments we’d had over this studio. My wife, a fashion designer, had spent countless hours creating suits and gowns for her ex-husband, Noah Green, who was also Tommy’s biological father. I had accused her of crossing boundaries too many times, but she always dismissed my concerns, saying I was being unreasonable. I’d even joked once that I’d burn all the dresses she’d so carefully designed for Noah. Now, as I watched the flames devour them, I felt no satisfaction—only despair. The choking smoke stung my eyes and lungs, forcing me to the ground, coughing violently. My injured leg could no longer support me. Driven by survival instinct, I crawled toward the balcony, my skin burning, the fiery heat making me dizzy. I pressed my face against the narrow cracks in the balcony railing, desperately gulping the thin, smoky air outside. Lying there, I peered down at the crowd gathering below. My sharp eyesight immediately picked out my son, standing safely among them. Relief hit me like a wave. Tommy was safe. At least he didn’t perish in this fire with me. Tears I had held back finally spilled down my soot-covered face. I thought back to the day my wife gave birth to Tommy. Not long after, she divorced Noah, who had abandoned his family to chase his dream of becoming a world-famous pianist. Six months later, she married me—her childhood friend who had loved her for years. For seven years, I had raised Tommy as my own, dedicating everything to him. To me, he was no different from my biological son. But now, the thought of him losing both his mother and me broke my heart into pieces. And yet, my wife… Where was she? Was she still waiting for me somewhere in this burning apartment? Clinging to the railing, I forced my battered body to stand again, ready to continue the search. But then, a familiar car pulled up and parked below. My heart sank. Out of the car stepped two people: my wife, Emily, and her ex-husband, Noah Green. At that moment, I didn’t know whether my sharp vision was a blessing or a curse. Hadn’t Tommy said Emily was in the bedroom sleeping? How could she be outside—with him? Then I remembered: today was Noah’s big comeback concert. So that’s where she had been. She left our son home alone to attend her ex-husband’s concert. Did she even know how close Tommy had come to dying in the fire? Couldn’t she have brought him with her? None of it made sense to me, but I had no time to think. I was dying. The smoke was suffocating me, and I clung to the balcony railing, trying to breathe the scorching air. Looking down, I saw the three of them embracing. Even from here, I could hear Tommy’s innocent voice calling out, “Daddy!” But he wasn’t calling me. He was calling Noah. Emily wrapped her arms around both Noah and Tommy, and to the onlookers, they probably seemed like a happy little family. None of them looked back at the burning building. None of them thought about me, still trapped inside. After a brief moment of tears, they turned and walked away, hand in hand. I watched their backs as they disappeared into the distance. Despair washed over me. I closed my eyes, unwilling to believe that the wife and son I loved so deeply could abandon me without a second thought. But deep down, I had known this day would come. Ever since Noah returned to town, I had noticed the changes in my wife and son. Emily’s true love had always been Noah. I was nothing more than her second choice, the man she settled for when she needed someone to give Tommy a stable home. Back then, Noah had left her and their newborn son without looking back, choosing his career over his family. Emily married me because she wanted to give Tommy a complete family. For years, I had hoped my love and devotion would thaw her heart. I was wrong. Even during those years when Noah was gone, he had never truly left Emily’s heart. The rows of suits and dresses she designed for him in her studio were proof enough of that. I remembered once asking her to make me a custom suit. She had snapped at me: “Why would I waste time making something for you? You don’t even have an occasion to wear it! Stop bothering me. Noah has a European tour coming up next month, and I promised him a new outfit for every performance.” I had left her studio that day, pale and humiliated. Now, I finally understood. I had never stood a chance. With Noah back in her life, it was only a matter of time before she and Tommy returned to him. As for Tommy, I had foolishly hoped he would choose to stay with me. But in the end, I was no match for his real father. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Tommy’s excited laughter as he asked to celebrate with a big dinner. Emily and Noah’s warm, affectionate voices agreed. I opened my eyes one last time to confirm what I already knew. Their car was pulling away. Emily smiled as she reminded Noah and Tommy to buckle up. From the backseat, Tommy tilted his chubby face up, asking Noah to wipe the soot off his cheeks. It was over. They were gone. At that moment, I realized they had truly abandoned me. Perhaps they thought it would be better if I died here in silence. But I wasn’t ready to disappear without a trace. Even if my family had forsaken me, I still wanted to live—for myself. The flames blocked the door, leaving no way out. I turned to the balcony, where a childproof safety net had been installed to protect Tommy. Dragging my injured leg, I crawled to a corner of the balcony where an old iron plant stand was bolted to the wall. Using all my strength, I tore the net, widening the hole just enough for me to fit through. The flames were licking at my back, and the heat was unbearable. With no time left to hesitate, I squeezed through the gap and leaped from the 18th floor.
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