At 4:49 p.m. on April 3, 2019, my phone rang. It was a crystal clear spring day with gusty winds, and my neighbor informed me that my Brooklyn apartment — and home of 10 years — was on fire.
I bolted from the desk where I worked in marketing for a SoHo startup, breathing in ragged gulps, thinking of my cat Crackers trapped inside.
Off the train, I jogged up the hill, where I spotted a crowd, eyes to the sky. Thick smoke billowed out of the windows of the six-story brick building, the anchor on the corner since 1931. Sirens wailed as the entire roof and top floor turned to ash.
I bought my apartment in my late 20s
I moved to Sunset Park, a middle- and working-class neighborhood in South Brooklyn, in 2002 while I was in college. It encapsulated much of what I’d left Maine …