I saw fear in the eyes of my three little girls — maybe because they saw fear in mine.

In those frenzied minutes following the Jan. 13 false alert of an inbound ballistic missile, my husband and I rushed our daughters into their bathroom, which has no windows. It was our safest option. As we sat on the floor, waiting for the unknown, our youngest, 5, held back tears.

“What’s happening?” “Is it going to hit us?” “Are we going to die?” Our girls rattled off questions, looking for reassurance I couldn’t give them at that moment because I was wondering the very same things. My husband, always our rock, our source of calm and reason, checked his iPhone to find more information.

Meanwhile, I called my sister to check on her and her family. She lives with my parents, who were scrambling to gather all their medications into one bag. My sister asked if we wanted to go to their house, just a few minutes away from ours. I didn’t think we would be able to make it in time. Our phone connection was bad, so we had to hang up.

“We love you,” she texted me shortly after.

“Love you all,” I replied. We were saying our goodbyes.

The range of emotions many of us experienced — terror mixed with shock, confusion and panic — all in the span of about 40 minutes was overwhelming. Nauseating.

By the time we received the all-clear from official sources, I was emotionally drained to the point of tears. I was relieved, but mostly, I was livid. How the hell could such an epic error have been made? People — children — believed they were going to die. How traumatizing!

And how awful is it that we are living during a time when such alerts and drills even exist? That the threat, regardless of how remote, is still a real possibility?

I hugged and kissed my daughters. I could finally give them the reassurance they needed.

About an hour after the false-alarm notification, while I was scrolling through my social media feeds and trying to process the madness of the morning, my sister texted me again: “Are you available for dinner tonight? Dad wants to treat us.”

I wanted nothing more than to be with family that night. The incident offered valuable perspective, reminding us of our greatest priorities in life.

So at my dad’s request, we met at one of our favorite restaurants. We greeted each other with kisses and embraces that lasted a little longer than usual. We recounted the horrors of the morning, even laughed at some of the memes we saw that were inspired by the day’s events.

In those moments we shared over dinner, all the harrowing and negative emotions of the day gave way to pure gratitude.

We were safe. We were together. And that’s all that mattered.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Zenaida Serrano at zserrano@staradvertiser.com.