When 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, but I couldn’t shake the pit in my stomach.

We didn’t have a home to go back to.

Rent lapsed months ago while 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.

Then 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.

But 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.

We walked out like any other family—wheels squeaking on the hospital floor, nurses waving goodbye.

But once we were outside, one of the officers leaned in close and handed me a plain white envelope.

He said, “Don’t open it until you’re in the van.”