As they told us we could finally leave, I should’ve felt relieved.
Instead, I felt numb. My daughter was smiling under her mask, clutching her stuffed bunny and waving to every nurse in sight, yet I couldn’t shake the pit in my stomach.
We didn’t have a home to go back to.
Rent lapsed months ago when I was staying at the hospital with her, day and night, waiting through treatments and test results.
Her dad was long gone.
My job said they “understood”—but they stopped calling two weeks ago. I knew what that meant.
I tried not to show it. I kept smiling for her, brushing her hair back, letting her pick out a balloon from the gift shop even though we couldn’t really afford it.
After that, two police officers showed up in the lobby.
For a second, I panicked. I thought maybe it was about the bills, or the paperwork I didn’t finish.
However, one of the nurses just gave me a little nod and whispered, “It’s okay. They’re here to help.”
The officers offered to carry our bags, help us to a “temporary placement.” I didn’t know what that meant, and I was too exhausted to ask.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page. Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
