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Among the milestones of childhood — your first lost tooth, first bike ride, first day of school — burning down the family home doesn’t usually make the list. But growing up on a farm in Idaho, my childhood wasn’t exactly typical.
I was eight. I hadn’t done anything intentionally reckless — just left a lampshade-less reading lamp resting on a pillow. On my way downstairs to breakfast, I left the light on. A little while later, my dad smelled smoke. By the time help arrived, the fire had consumed everything. Our home was gone.
What amazes me most now isn’t the fire