THEY ESCORTED US OUT OF THE HOSPITAL—BUT NOT FOR THE REASON YOU THINK

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THEY ESCORTED US OUT OF THE HOSPITAL—BUT NOT FOR THE REASON YOU THINK


When they announced we could depart, I should have experienced relief.


Instead, I felt emotionless. My child smiled beneath her mask, holding her plush rabbit and greeting every nurse she saw, but I couldn't eliminate the anxiety in my stomach.


We had nowhere to return to.


Rent had expired several weeks ago while I remained at the hospital with her, throughout days and evenings, enduring treatments and waiting for test outcomes. Her father had disappeared long ago. My employers said they "comprehended"—but they ceased calling fourteen days ago. I understood the implication.


I attempted to hide my feelings. I continued smiling for her, smoothing her hair, allowing her to select a balloon from the gift store even though we couldn't truly afford it.


Then two law enforcement officers appeared in the entrance hall.


Initially, I worried. I thought perhaps it concerned the unpaid charges, or the documentation I hadn't completed.


But a nurse simply gave me a slight nod and said quietly, "Don't worry. They're here to assist."


The officers proposed to transport our luggage, guide us to a "provisional accommodation." I wasn't clear what that signified, and I was too tired to inquire.


We exited like any typical family—wheels creaking on the hospital flooring, nurses bidding farewell.


However, once outside, an officer moved close and handed me a simple white envelope.


He stated, "Wait until you're in the vehicle before opening it."


Inside the van currently.


Envelope rests on my knees.


And I just observed the corner has someone's name written on it—his name.


"Mommy," my child, Callie, pulled my sleeve. "Can we have ice cream?"


Her tone was so optimistic, so pure, that it almost crushed me. How do you tell a six-year-old there's no money remaining? That everything seems to be falling apart around you?


"Perhaps later, darling," I replied, creating a smile. "Right now, let's consider where we're heading next, alright?"


She agreed, content temporarily, and looked out the window. The urban landscape passed rapidly as the van moved forward. Occasionally, she would indicate something—a passing dog, a vibrant mural on a building's wall—and her delight helped reduce the persistent worry in my chest.


But the envelope... it felt substantial in my thoughts. Why had the officer insisted on not examining it until we were inside the van? And whose name was written in faded ink on the corner? It seemed recognizable, but my mind was too exhausted to recognize it.


Eventually, after what seemed like forever, the van entered a peaceful residential area. The residences here were unpretentious but maintained nicely, with trimmed lawns and flower gardens full of color. We halted before a small azure house with white shutters. A woman stood on the entrance porch, arms folded, watching our approach.


"This serves as your provisional housing," one officer stated. "Mrs. Harper will oversee your care until additional plans can be established."


Provisional housing? What exactly did that signify? Was this a type of refuge? Foster accommodation? I couldn't comprehend, but before I could pose more questions, the officers were already exiting the vehicle.


"Hold on!" I shouted after them. "What about—"


"Review the envelope," the younger officer suggested kindly. He gave me a meaningful glance before shutting the door.


Callie moved enthusiastically beside me as Mrs. Harper neared the van. She was mature, likely in her mid-fifties, with gray-streaked hair tied carefully into a knot. Her expression softened when she observed Callie, and she smiled cordially.


"Greetings," she said, assisting us with our belongings. "Let's get you comfortable."


After entering the snug living area, I positioned myself on the sofa's edge, Callie nestled beside me. Mrs. Harper went to the kitchen, leaving us briefly alone. My hands shook as I lifted the envelope again. The name on the corner confronted me: Derek Monroe.


My breathing halted. Derek... It seemed impossible. Could it be?


I ripped the envelope open, my heart racing. Inside lay a single paper sheet and a key attached to a small card. The card message read:


"This isn't generosity. This is kinship. Visit 427 Maple Street. Everything will become clear there."


The location matched the house where we sat. Puzzlement filled my mind. Who would send this? And for what reason?


I unfolded the letter, reading the words rapidly. Tears formed in my eyes as I recognized who had sent it—and why.


Derek Monroe was my elder sibling. We hadn't communicated in years—not since his departure after university. Life had directed us differently, and gradually, we lost contact. I wasn't even certain if he still resided in the region.


But according to the letter, he'd been monitoring my situation. 

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