When the nurse told me we were being discharged, I thought I’d feel relief. But instead, I felt numb.
My daughter Callie beamed behind her mask, waving her stuffed bunny at every smiling nurse. She had no idea how heavy my heart was.
We had no home to return to.
After months at the hospital—through every treatment, test, and sleepless night—our rent had long gone unpaid. I had taken a leave from work that quietly turned into something more permanent. Callie’s father had been absent for years. And now, all I had left were a few bags, a brave six-year-old, and the lingering question: what comes next?
I tried to stay upbeat. I let her pick a balloon from the gift shop, even though I was counting every dollar.
Then, two police officers approached us in the lobby. My breath caught—I thought it might be about paperwork or medical bills I couldn’t settle yet. But a nurse leaned in and said softly, “It’s okay. They’re here to help.”
The officers offered to carry our bags and escort us to what they called a “temporary placement.” I was too tired to ask questions. We walked out of the hospital just like any other family. Nurses waved. Callie skipped beside me.
Continue reading on next page…