“How are the boys?” my father asked. It was New Year’s Day, and he looked thin and worn out—still recovering from a tough infection and weeks of hospital food.

“They’re learning to swim,” I said, knowing he’d like that. I remembered being a little boy in a lake during my own swimming lessons, looking up to see my dad on the shore, enthusiastically mimicking doggy-paddle motions. He meant to encourage me. All I wanted was for him to rescue me.

Now the roles were reversed. My dad hated asking for help, so when he did, I went. As the first sunrise of 2025 broke, I shook off the champagne haze, left my wife and kids (Theo, 5, and Jamie, 3) on vacation in Florida, and flew to Saratoga Springs in upstate New York. On the drive from the airport, a knot tightened in my stomach. They call it the “sandwich generation”—caught between raising little kids and caring for aging parents. Was this what the next few years would look like?

Passing my childhood home on the way into town, I felt the pull of the past. Even after twenty years and many moves, that house still appears in my dreams. Now, heading to the hospital, I couldn’t help but think of how my father once seemed indestructible. Seeing him frail made me miss the safety of those earlier days.

My dad loved climbing mountains and wanted me to love it too. When my boots gave me blisters, or I slipped crossing a stream, or I whined, “Are we ever going to get home?”—his answer was always the same: Don’t worry, Dad’s here. I wish I knew how to give my boys that same unshakable confidence, especially now, when everything feels uncertain.

Back home in Washington, DC, January felt especially bleak. As I helped my dad leave the hospital, I said, “I’ve been thinking about California. Maybe we’ll move back.”

During Trump’s first term, my wife YJ and I lived in Los Angeles. I’d spent the previous decade in Washington working for Hillary Clinton, including as her chief speechwriter in 2016. Losing that election upended the life we thought we were building. Like so many before us, we hoped the West Coast would offer a fresh start.

Back then, there were no kids, no mortgage—no real plan, either. We talked about wish fulfillment, doing things we couldn’t have done if we’d won and been stuck at White House desks. Let’s live by the beach. Let’s hike in the canyons. Let’s buy a Jeep and learn to surf. Let’s start a family. Eventually, we found a house in Pacific Palisades. It didn’t have much of a yard, but the light was good, and a graceful tree filled the bay window of the upstairs living room. We painted the doors Santorini blue and planted jasmine in the back.

After Theo was born, wish fulfillment gave way to midnight feedings and diaper rashes. One night, in the middle of the chaos, my dad called from New York. Theo was wailing in the background. Exhausted and distracted, I barely listened as my dad said, “Savor every moment—you’ll miss this.” I resented it. This was hard. Didn’t he remember?

The pandemic hit when Theo was six months old. Life slowed down. Most afternoons, YJ and I took him on long walks through the neighborhood, winding our way to the bluffs overlooking the Pacific. There was a house with wind chimes that sang whenever the ocean breeze picked up. Theo loved batting at them with his tiny hands.

When Theo was 18 months old, Jamie was born. The first 15 minutes of his life were the scariest of mine—he couldn’t breathe. I watched the doctors panic and rush him out of the delivery room. Miraculously, eight days later, we were able to bring him home.Bringing him home from the NICU, healthy and adorable, was one of the happiest moments of my life. I’ll never forget walking through our front door with him for the first time.

When Theo turned two, his favorite activity was sitting at the corner of Sunset Boulevard, just a block from our house, watching cars speed by. Strapped into his blue race-car stroller, he’d spin the wheel and excitedly point out vehicles he recognized—a school bus, a motorcycle, or his absolute favorite: a mail truck! Every morning, we’d drive a few minutes west on Sunset to his nursery school. The playground had ocean views, and next door was a fire station with gleaming trucks and friendly firefighters who sometimes gave our starstruck toddler a tour.

Living in the Palisades, we knew wildfires were a risk. Brush fires in the hills were common, and I had multiple air quality apps on my phone. Some days, the smoke was too thick to take the kids outside. In October 2019, when a fire near the Getty Center spiraled out of control, evacuation orders crept within blocks of our house. My dad was visiting and helped pack a go-bag of baby essentials in case we had to leave quickly. The next morning, as I drove to LAX for an early flight to San Francisco, I could see flames in the distance. Sitting on the runway, my phone buzzed with alerts—LeBron James tweeted that he and his family had evacuated Brentwood. I bolted from the plane and raced home.

Luckily, the fire never reached the Palisades. And aside from my runway panic, I usually struggled to believe real danger would ever touch us. We lived in a densely populated area, not some remote canyon. It would take an unimaginable disaster to affect us—hardly worth losing sleep over, especially with a pandemic and Donald Trump dominating our worries.

By 2021, when Biden took office, our focus shifted east. California had once felt like a refuge—more sun, fewer fascists, we joked. It had become home, especially after having kids. But we missed our East Coast friends and family, and when my wife was offered a job in the new administration, we decided to leave Pacific Palisades.

I ended up missing L.A. more than I expected. Sure, there was the typical ex-Californian nostalgia—the weather, the beaches, the food. But I wondered how much of it was for the place itself and how much was for that fleeting, precious chapter of our lives.

Parenting is easier now. The anxieties of raising an infant, especially the first time, have faded. We carry less gear, have real conversations with the kids, and watch them joke, sing, and grow independent. Yet I finally understand what my dad meant—I miss those early days. Those first years of family life feel like a golden time. It wasn’t just the idyllic Palisades Bluffs or the stroller walks; it was the newness of our family and the space to simply be together.

When Trump won again in 2024, I found myself dreaming of California. Moving back wasn’t practical—the kids were settled in school, and our lives were full. But the longing lingered.

Then came the fire. On Sunset Boulevard, near where Theo once watched cars, people abandoned gridlocked vehicles and fled on foot. Firefighters used bulldozers to clear paths through the wreckage. Our old house was gone—only the chimney and front steps remained. Nearly every home on the block burned. The whole neighborhood was reduced to ashes. Thousands lost everything.

I watched the devastation from afar. I couldn’t smell the smoke or feel the desert winds. My family is lucky—that house wasn’t ours anymore, our kids didn’t have to evacuate, and we won’t face the painful rebuilding process. But I keep thinking about…The flames tore through the rooms where Theo took his first steps and spoke his first words, where I used to sing “Sweet Baby James” as he drifted off to sleep in my arms. Closing my eyes, I could see the fire racing down our quiet cul-de-sac. I wondered how our neighbors were handling the unthinkable.

In those first days after the fire, when details were scarce, I searched endlessly for photos or videos of our street. My wife couldn’t bring herself to look, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to know. I wasn’t just mourning a place—I was grieving a time in our lives that now feels like a lost paradise. As the fire destroyed the town we loved, it also delivered a painful truth: You can’t go back. Nostalgia is its own dead end. Parenthood is about building the future, not reliving the past. So is life.

My dad recovered from his infection and is doing much better. Maybe the pressures of being sandwiched between generations can wait a little longer. Recently, he visited LA and drove through the Palisades. He sent me photos of our empty street—the lot where our house once stood has finally been cleared. I hope something new and beautiful will rise there, a home for another family.

Theo is obsessed with trains now. Instead of watching cars speed down Sunset, we ride the DC Metro from one end to the other. He calls out station names the way he used to shout “Bus!” or “Mail truck!” He and Jamie don’t remember our house in the Palisades any more than they remember their pacifiers and bottles. One day, when they’re older, I’ll tell them about it.