One morning in 2018, my husband Reuben told me about a nightmare he’d had the night before. In his dream, he was driving over the Hewitt Avenue Trestle—a bridge near our home in Everett, Washington—when he crashed through the railing into the water below and had to choose which of our two children to save.
Two weeks later, I was getting our kids, three-year-old Talia and ten-month-old Weston, ready for preschool before heading to work. It was our usual routine, a drive we’d made countless times. That morning, I was on speakerphone with Reuben while the kids sat in the back when I noticed a strange smell, like burning plastic. I mentioned it to him, but we both dismissed it, assuming it was coming from one of the nearby industrial buildings.
A minute later, after hanging up, I drove onto the same bridge from Reuben’s nightmare, now packed with rush-hour traffic. Suddenly, the word “STOP” flashed on my dashboard. Before I could process it, smoke began pouring from under the hood. I knew I needed to pull over, but the bridge was 2.5 miles long with no shoulder, so I thought it safest to keep going.
The smoke grew so thick I could barely see the road. Somehow, I managed to pull over despite cars speeding past. Panicked, I called AAA, only to find my membership had expired. As I spoke to the operator, flames burst through the windshield—the hood was on fire.
Terrified the car would explode, I leaped out, yanked open Weston’s door, and unbuckled his car seat. The AAA operator screamed at me to call 911 as traffic roared past just inches away. For a split second, I froze—should I set Weston down to grab Talia? Could I carry both of them to safety?
Then, out of nowhere, a man appeared. “It’s OK, mama,” he said, taking Weston from my arms and rushing him to his car, parked right behind mine. I sprinted to Talia’s door, now engulfed in flames. She screamed, “Mummy!” as I snatched her up and ran to the stranger’s car. As we sped away, I looked back to see flames shooting into the sky, Talia sobbing against my chest.
In shock, I didn’t call 911 or Reuben—just asked to be dropped at a nearby dealership. I hugged the stranger, thanking him, only later realizing I never got his name.
Reuben was 50 miles away at work, so I called a friend who came immediately. As I collapsed into his arms crying, he joked, “Sorry I’m late—there was some big fire on the road.”
On the way to my parents’ house, I finally called Reuben. He was heartbroken, apologizing over and over for not realizing the smell had been serious.It was awful. I tried to reassure him—I hadn’t known either.
Seeing the burnt-out car arrive later that day before it was scrapped made me feel sick. The thought of what could have happened if I hadn’t gotten the kids out in time haunted me.
Weston seemed unfazed, and Talia bounced back to her cheerful self within hours, but I struggled. I had terrible nightmares, reliving it over and over. Even in our new car, I’d frantically roll down the windows at the faintest smell, convinced it was on fire.
EMDR therapy helped me a lot. I even managed to drive across the Trestle Bridge without panicking.
We never found out what caused the fire. Thankfully, the kids don’t remember that day now. And when they complain that Mummy doesn’t do this or that, I remind them I once ran into a burning car for them—and I’d do it again without hesitation.
As told to Kate Graham.
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