When the nurses finally told us we could leave, I expected to feel relief. Instead, I stood next to my daughter, Callie, bags in hand, forcing a smile for her while feeling completely hollow inside. Callie, wearing her mask and beaming with joy, waved goodbye to the nurses like they were lifelong friends. Her stuffed bunny peeked out from under her arm.
But underneath her happiness was a reality I couldn’t ignore—we had no place to go. Our apartment was gone. I’d lost my job. And Callie’s father had been out of the picture for years. Just when it felt like we were out of options, two police officers showed up—not to arrest us or bring bad news, but to help. One of the nurses quietly told me everything was okay. I didn’t ask questions. I just went with them, too numb to resist.
As we sat in the van, I stared at the envelope in my lap. One name was written on it—Derek Monroe. My brother. A name I hadn’t spoken out loud in years.
