During the Los Angeles fires, I had minutes to pack my emergency bag. I took the few photos I have of my birth mother.

• When I saw the Los Angeles fires creep toward my house, I knew I had to pack an emergency bag fast.
• I grabbed the essentials, but then I remembered I needed to take photos of my birth mother with me.
• That's when I learned nothing I've ever purchased is as important to me as I thought.

It's amazing what you pack when a fire rages five blocks from the home you've lived in for 24 years and raised your kids in. It's amazing what you decide — in those panicked moments — is most valuable.

My daughter, 26, lives at home, and her friends, who evacuated from the latest fire in Hollywood, came to stay with us. We live in the flats of the San Fernando Valley. Wildfire danger is rare, and the same goes for floods and mudslides. That's why, 24 years ago, we chose this leafy cul-de-sac.

Like all Angelenos, I've spent the last few days scared and anxious, checking in with friends and watching communities and beloved institutions burn to the ground. I've heard from friends who've lost everything. A lifetime turned to ash.

At least everyone is safe, I kept telling myself. I've been coping as best I can, alternating between watching the news and attempting to dissociate with "Downton Abbey."

But one night this week, my daughter ran into my room and told me to turn on the news. There was a fire just blocks away. We grabbed our coats, ran outside, walked a block, and saw the flames on the nearby hillside. Families emerged from houses and buildings, carrying all they could manage, and rushed to their cars.

"What should we do?" my daughter asked.

I stood nearly catatonic. "I don't know. I just don't know."

We watched the Los Angeles fire department make water drops and watched more neighbors, stricken with fear, run to their cars. We decided to get back home and quickly pack the car.

I first struggled to find what was most valuable to me

I grabbed jewelry, passports, jugs of water, and the emergency earthquake kit my husband insists we keep updated. I packed underwear, toothpaste, and random toiletries as if hyaluronic acid was essential to my survival. My daughter carried bags of dog food and her favorite clothes. I then watched her take a giant plastic bin from the garage.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Pictures," she replied.

Suddenly, everything stopped — the noise, the fear, the rushing. Only one thing mattered: finding the photographs of my birth mother.

My birth mother and I never met, but I needed her in this emergency

I was adopted at three months old, and my records were sealed. At 31, after the birth of my daughter, I found my birth mother via a copy of my original birth certificate held in the New York Public Library. She had already died — in 1995, one day before my 27th birthday, before I found her, before I could tell I was OK, and before I could tell her that I understood.

After a decadeslong search, I found her husband (not my father), Andrew. In 2022, I met Andrew in Paris. After lunch and wine, he handed me a canvas bag and said, "This is for you."

Slowly, meticulously, I took out photograph after photograph — aged and loved — and contemplated the face, expression, and fabulous style of my first mother.

When I came home from Paris, I carefully laid out each picture on my hotel bed — some more than 40 years old — and snapped photos of them with my phone. I knew I needed a digital archive, but nothing could replace holding the images in my hand, touching her in the only way allowed. I then put the bag of photos in a box I kept under my bed.

I took the photos of Gloria with me, not fully knowing how much I valued them

My daughter shouted to me, "Everything I want is in my car!"

I let her know I was almost ready. Frantic to find the pictures of Gloria, I rifled through storage bags, and then I remembered the box. It was right there under the bed — below where my head rests each night.

I reached, retrieved it, and opened it. The bag of Gloria's photographs was safely inside. Hurry. I rushed to my car, placed the box beside my go bag, and hugged my daughter. We were ready. We were safe. And my first mother was with me — like she always is.

In the end, thanks to brave firefighters and water drops, we didn't need to evacuate. But the lesson of those frenzied moments will stay with me forever. Nothing I've ever purchased is as important to me as I thought.