Chapter 2: Blessings and Smoke

After dinner, my cousin and I ran around the backyard, our laughter echoing through the warm Georgia evening.

The dusk air was alive with the hum of cicadas and the smell of freshly cut grass. Fireflies winked between the hydrangea bushes as my cousin Eli and I chased each other past Grandma Carol’s creaky swing set, giggling until our sides ached. "Maddie, come here and wipe your face. Look at you—you're as dirty as a little raccoon!" My mom smiled as she walked over, scooping me up to wipe my cheeks with a napkin.

She fussed over me, brushing a stray curl from my forehead. Her hands smelled faintly of dish soap and garden tomatoes. Just then, our neighbor Mrs. Harper strolled by, grinning. "Maddie is such a lucky kid, so adorable."

Mrs. Harper wore her usual pastel house dress and clutched her purse like she was heading to church, not just taking out the trash. But then she leaned in, her voice dropping. "You know, Rachel, a little brother for Maddie would sure make things feel more complete around here."

Mom’s jaw tightened for a split second, but her voice stayed gentle. She tickled me gently and replied, polite but firm, "We're happy with just Maddie, Mrs. Harper. You don't need to worry about us."

Her tone had that edge I knew meant the conversation was over. As I burst out laughing from my mom's tickling, Mrs. Harper shook her head and walked away.

She tossed a look back over her shoulder, muttering something about how she “didn’t understand young folks these days.” Grandma Carol came out from the house, brushing off her apron. "Don't listen to that Harper woman's nonsense. Having Maddie in our family is already a blessing."

Grandma’s voice was as sturdy as her cornbread, and she winked at me like she was sharing a secret. Mom smiled too. "Mom, Daniel and I plan to go to the city tomorrow to look at houses. We’ve managed to save up quite a bit these past two years. For Maddie’s future schooling, we should move to the city sooner rather than later."

She glanced at Dad through the kitchen window, who gave a nervous thumbs-up while trying to wrangle our old pickup into the driveway. Grandma Carol patted my head kindly. "As long as you two have made up your minds, that's good. I've put aside some money too—if you need it, just ask."

Her hands were rough and warm, lingering on my hair a moment longer, like she could pass on all her hopes through that simple touch. But my parents would never really take Grandma's money. After all, there's still Uncle Mike in the family, and things have to be fair.

The unspoken rules of Southern families hung in the air—no favorites, even when your heart wanted otherwise. It’s not unusual for boys to be favored over girls in small-town Georgia; Grandma Carol used to be the same way.

She’d tell stories at the table about how she’d wanted a boy to carry on the family name, her voice a little sheepish now. When I was born and she heard I was a girl, she was obviously disappointed.

But I was always a smiley baby. Even swaddled up, I’d grin like a plump little biscuit, and my parents and Grandma Carol couldn’t help but laugh too, cuddling me and reluctant to put me down.

The photos on the mantel proved it—a round-cheeked baby girl, mouth open in a gummy smile, cradled in arms that were supposed to want a boy, but never seemed to let me go. Plus, I was sweet and talkative, and with that, I soon won everyone’s affection at home.

I’d babble to anyone who’d listen, even the postman or the family dog, making up stories as wild as any cartoon. But what truly changed my place in the family was something else entirely.

When I was one, my parents had to go out, so Grandma Carol looked after me at home.

That day was heavy with the smell of rain in the air, Grandma humming hymns as she rocked me to sleep after lunch. After feeding me lunch, Grandma went to weed the garden while I played alone on the bed.

The house was quiet except for the distant drone of a lawnmower, and I stacked blocks by the window, watching ants march along the sill. Not long after, I suddenly started wailing loudly.

My cries cut through the lazy afternoon. Grandma rushed in, scooped me up, and tried everything to soothe me, but nothing worked—my cries only grew louder and hoarser.

She rocked me, sang lullabies, even offered me a teething ring, but nothing helped. For someone like me, who loved to laugh, this was very unusual.

Grandma didn’t dare wait. She hurriedly carried me to the urgent care clinic in town.

She flagged down a neighbor for a ride, clutching me against her chest all the way, her hands shaking just a bit. The doctor found nothing wrong and just told her to keep an eye on me at home.

He patted Grandma’s arm, said, “Babies cry for all sorts of reasons, ma’am. Just watch her and bring her back if it gets worse.” On the way back, as Grandma carried me, she suddenly saw thick black smoke rising from the direction of our house.

She gasped, nearly tripping as the acrid scent of burning wood hit her. "Fire! Fire!" she cried out, breaking into a run.

She handed me off to a neighbor and tore through the street, heart pounding, feet slapping the pavement. When she got home, she saw several houses—including ours—engulfed in flames.

Someone yelled, ‘Y’all, over here!’ and hands—big, small, callused—passed water like a lifeline. Neighbors were out in their bathrobes and boots, passing buckets from the creek, shouting for more water. The fire was fierce, and all the neighbors rushed to help put it out.

A siren wailed in the distance, and the volunteer fire department barreled in, hoses snaking through flowerbeds. My parents rushed back too, and only when they saw Grandma Carol and me safe did they finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Dad collapsed onto the sidewalk, head in his hands, and Mom hugged me until I squeaked. The fire raged all afternoon and was only extinguished by evening.

Charred wood and scorched earth was all that was left. Ash clung to our hair and the air tasted like burnt toast. That night, the house smelled of smoke for miles. Later, we heard that several families nearby had people who were badly injured—some even left disabled despite being rescued.

Mrs. Harper’s cousin had been caught in her attic. The fire chief said it was a miracle more people hadn’t died. But our family escaped with little loss, and no one was hurt.

Our roof was half gone, and smoke had stained the nursery, but we had each other. My parents were silent for a long time after hearing this news.

There was a weight in their eyes, a kind of hush that lingered over dinner. Grandma hugged me tightly, her eyes still full of fear.

She rocked me in her lap, whispering prayers and promises, like she’d never let go. "Thanks to Maddie, our Maddie is a lucky baby—Grandma’s precious little blessing."

Her voice trembled, and Dad squeezed her shoulder, the three of us locked together in the quiet of a house that somehow, against all odds, still stood.