My phone rang while I was heading home. It was my six-year-old daughter, sobbing, saying she was in pain everywhere and terrified. I asked where her dad was. She said he was there—suffering too, helpless. I drove faster than I ever had, my heart pounding with fear. What I walked into moments later shattered every expectation I had.

Michael was taken into intensive care. Sophie was admitted for monitoring. I sat alone in the waiting room, replaying every choice I’d made that day. The missed battery replacement. The overtime shift. The moment I told myself, It can wait.

The doctor finally approached me just before dawn.
“They’re lucky,” she said gently. “Very lucky. Another hour, maybe less, and the outcome would have been very different.”

Michael regained consciousness later that afternoon, confused and weak but alive. Sophie slept most of the day, her small hand wrapped tightly around mine, her breathing finally steady.

Over the next few days, the reality of what had almost happened sank in. The firefighters showed me readings from inside our house—levels high enough to be fatal. Neighbors told me they’d heard nothing unusual. No alarms. No warning.

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