When the Eaton Canyon fire broke out, my 14-year-old niece sent me a frantic text: “HEY WE HAVE TO COME TO UR HOUSE CUZ THERE IS A HUGE FIRE. WE NEED TO EVACUATEEEE.”

Living in Altadena near the fire’s origin, she and her family rushed to my Los Angeles home. As they arrived, nerves were high. My sister-in-law had managed to grab chili from the crockpot on her way out, while my younger niece brought nothing but herself. My older niece, though, had packed a change of clothes and a few precious photos.

That night, we watched the news in horror as the fire devoured parts of their neighborhood. They worried about everything they might’ve lost. “At least you’re all safe,” I kept repeating, trying to stay positive. I stayed up late, replaying the last time we’d all been together at their house, watching Bridget Jones’s Diary. I wanted to hold onto that cozy memory, just in case.

The next morning, we finally got good news: their house had survived. The kids hugged and cheered while I filmed their joy. We thought they’d be heading back soon, but here we are, more than two weeks later. Their home still reeks of smoke, and their neighborhood lacks basic services. One school remains closed, holding classes online.

As an investigative reporter, I’ve spent this time digging into the cause of the fire. But this experience has left me wrestling with a bigger question: Why were some homes spared while others weren’t? It’s a question that feels impossible to answer, even for someone who’s used to uncovering the truth.

While writing this, my youngest niece interrupted me. She was working on a school assignment about their synagogue, which had burned down. She read her words aloud: “Even though it burned down, it’s still there.”

It was a moment that reminded me of resilience—how some things, even when lost, remain a part of us.

Alexandra Berzon is an investigative reporter covering American politics and elections for The Times.