When the nurses finally said we could go home, I thought I’d feel relieved. Instead, I stood beside my daughter Callie, bags in hand, smiling for her sake while feeling nothing but emptiness. Callie, masked and radiant, waved goodbye to the nurses like old friends, her stuffed bunny peeking from under her arm.

But beneath her joy lay a truth I couldn’t hide—we had no home left. Our apartment was gone, my job lost, and Callie’s father had vanished long ago. Just when it felt like we had nowhere to turn, two police officers arrived—not to arrest us or deliver bad news, but to help. A nurse assured me it was okay, and I followed them without questions, numbly accepting whatever came next. In the van, an envelope with a single name—Derek Monroe—rested in my lap. My brother. A name I hadn’t spoken in years.