By Paul Kiernan | Photography by Alisha Jucevic for WSJ

ALTADENA, Calif. -- The Figueroa family has regained their home, but not their neighborhood.

Missi and Frank Figueroa and their three kids moved into their newly built Altadena house last month. At 2,350 square feet with fire-resistant siding, it sits on the same plot where the Eaton Fire destroyed their home of 10 years in January 2025. The firestorm damaged or destroyed around 6,000 local properties northeast of Los Angeles and killed 19 people.

Thanks to a mix of hard work, persistence and good fortune, the Figueroas are among a small batch of displaced residents who are back thus far. Only about 65 other homes have been completed in Altadena since the fire scorched the San Gabriel Mountains 16 months ago, county data show. Many more are still under construction.

During the day, the Figueroas' neighborhood hums with laborers and vendors selling Red Bull drinks and fried food from their cars. But at 6 p.m., when the streets had been filled with playing kids and dog-walking neighbors, it becomes a ghost town.

"It is wildly quiet," said Missi. She recalled an acquaintance telling her, "You're like the new pioneers of Altadena."

On Jan. 7, 2025, hurricane-force winds screaming down from the mountains knocked out the Figueroas' power. Within hours, one of the most destructive blazes in California history was approaching their yellow craftsman home.

Missi and Frank booked a hotel room for the night, and Frank returned to their home before dawn to pick up their dogs, Bubbles and Guacamole. When he went back three hours later to turn the sprinklers on, the house was already burning.

Missi was in denial until Frank showed her the 40-foot flames on FaceTime. Frank had a hard time believing it, too.

"I was like, maybe I'm just seeing the flames, but it's not actually on fire," he said.

The family lost everything including baby photos, Missi's grandmother's art and the stone urn that contained her late father's ashes. A Fender bass guitar Frank got when he was 11 years old, and his late father's tools, were also lost.

Their hotel stay stretched to two months, with 14-year-old Max and 12-year-old Nacho sharing one bed and 6-year-old Lupe sleeping between Frank and Missi in the other, with the dogs at their feet. They moved in the spring to a rental home in the nearby community of La Crescenta. But the kids kept going to school in Altadena, and the family visited their lot almost daily to sift through the ashes and, later, to watch the rebuilding.

"I would come and I'd sit and just cry in my car out on the street," Missi said. "Every day for six months."

They salvaged precious few things: a clay figurine Missi and Frank had purchased on their honeymoon in Peru. A few bricks her father had laid at their old house before he died. A piece of concrete that the family had scrawled their names in.

The couple, both nurses in their mid-40s, were determined to rebuild. Missi, who spent her childhood shuttling between Kansas and California after her parents divorced, said she was never happier than in Altadena. Frank's late father had talked them into buying the home shortly before he died of a stroke.

Still, rebuilding can be traumatic and overwhelming. There are insurance claims to file, phone trees to navigate, itemized inventories to create, temporary housing to arrange, clothes to buy, contractors to manage and bureaucracies to fight -- all while grieving the loss of heirlooms, memories and familiarity.

Missi said she cried every time she worked on their property-insurance claim, which involved listing lost belongings largely from memory. The inventory took months to build and reached 2,500 items, from furniture to kitchen spices. Still they forgot things, like a $600 spare key fob for Frank's truck.

"It feels like it never ends, just because of the little things you forget," he said.

The Figueroas chose building plans from Altadena Collective, a group of local architects formed to help wildfire victims rebuild their homes. It charged a flat rate of $55,000, which was far less than the percentage of total construction costs that architects typically charge.

The couple kept close tabs on their permit applications and bugged Los Angeles County when they felt things weren't moving fast enough. At one point last fall, they realized their application had been stalled for three months because a county official had sent a blank PDF document to a third-party reviewer.

"Unless you go out of your way to call," Frank said, "you'll be hanging in this limbo forever."

After getting quotes from several contractors, the Figueroas worried that their $780,000 home-insurance policy might only cover half the cost of a rebuild. But a friend who installs windows put them in touch with one contractor who offered to build their new house and 700-square-foot accessory unit on their property for $1.1 million, the lowest bid they received.

While taking a break from unpacking the U-Haul on move-in day, Frank pointed to the incomplete home on their neighbor's lot. "They got permits before us," he said.

To cover the difference between their insurance payout and the build cost, the Figueroas drew down their savings, took out a $50,000 Small Business Administration loan, and benefited from a GoFundMe set up by a friend that raised more than $112,000. They are hoping their personal-property insurance will eventually make up the gap.

To restrain costs, Missi and Frank sourced construction materials themselves. Friends donated tile and fixtures. Soon after President Trump announced a 25% tariff on bathroom vanities last year, they rushed to purchase theirs before the price rose.

It took one U-Haul trip and help from a family friend to move most of the Figueroas' belongings out of their rental last month.

The kids, who had watched with anticipation as the lot transformed from ashes and rubble into a new house, were eager to settle in. After arriving home from school, Max headed to the backyard unit to bang on his drum set, Nacho went upstairs to check out his new bedroom and Lupe rode her electric three-wheeler around the driveway. Missi and Frank said they tossed and turned the first night, noticing every passing car that broke the dead silence. But the kids slept soundly.

Furnishing the place is a work in progress, the Figueroas say. It took weeks for bedroom curtains to arrive -- which would have been more of a problem if they had any neighbors. They have no idea how much they will receive from their property-insurance claim.

Meanwhile, Missi has been buying replicas of lost toys on eBay and knickknacks to occupy the empty spaces. On the fireplace mantel is a hot-dog candle, which matches the hot-dog vase in the kitchen, both of which go nicely with her "In My Hot Dog Era" T-shirt.

"After the fires, you get to reinvent yourself," Missi said.

"She made hot dogs her personality," Frank added.

Rebuilding remains uneven in Altadena. Some families are living in RVs on their burned-out lots. L.A. County data show about 1,665 new residential units under construction in the area destroyed by the Eaton Fire, which includes areas outside Altadena.

The Figueroas acknowledge it will be years before their neighborhood returns to a place they recognize. But even now, there are echoes of the old Altadena, such as a Mexican "elote" corn vendor who still makes his rounds despite a greatly reduced clientele.

The family hosted their first party in the new house, a sixth-birthday bash for Lupe, in mid-June. Frank barbecued ribs in the yard, his mom served birria with rice and beans, and some 50 friends and classmates showed up. Max, who has been practicing drums constantly in the extra unit, is planning a backyard show with his rock band in July.

"We had a lot of parties before," Frank said.

Write to Paul Kiernan at paul.kiernan@wsj.com

(END) Dow Jones Newswires

June 20, 2026 05:30 ET (09:30 GMT)

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