When we were told we could leave, I should’ve felt relief. Instead, I felt numb. My daughter, smiling under her mask and clutching her stuffed bunny, waved at the nurses, but a pit sat heavy in my stomach. We didn’t have a home to return to.

While I stayed by her side in the hospital, everything fell apart. Our rent lapsed. Her dad was long gone, and my job stopped calling. I kept smiling, brushing her hair back, letting her choose a balloon, pretending everything was fine.

Then two police officers arrived. I panicked, fearing the worst, but one of the nurses whispered, “They’re here to help.” They offered to carry our bags and take us to a “temporary placement.” I didn’t understand, but I didn’t ask.

We drove to a quiet neighborhood, stopping at a small blue house. “This is your temporary placement,” the officer said, as a woman greeted us. But before I could ask more, the officer handed me an envelope, telling me to wait until we were in the van.

Inside, I found a letter and a key. The letter revealed the truth: My estranged brother, Derek, had been helping us in secret, offering his house to us with no strings attached. Tears filled my eyes. After years of silence, he hadn’t forgotten. He was there when I needed him most.

I finally realized that sometimes, family doesn’t mean being together all the time—it means showing up when it matters.