When the hospital finally discharged us, I didn’t feel relief—just numbness. My daughter Callie smiled behind her little mask, clutching her stuffed bunny, waving to the nurses. But all I could think was, we have nowhere to go. Our rent had lapsed months ago while I stayed by her side through every treatment. My job stopped calling weeks ago.

Then two police officers showed up. My heart dropped—until a nurse whispered, “They’re here to help.” The officers carried our bags and took us to a small blue house. A kind woman named Mrs. Harper greeted us. Confused, I was handed an envelope. Inside was a house key… and a note.

It was from Derek—my brother. We hadn’t spoken in years. His note read:
“This isn’t charity. This is family. Go to 427 Maple Street. Everything will make sense there.”

He had bought the house for us. No strings. Just love.

Over time, Derek helped me find a job. Callie started school. And slowly, we found our footing again. One night, Derek said, “You’re still my sister. That never changed.” I just whispered, “Thank you.”

Life’s still tough—but now we have hope. And I’ve learned something important:
When help shows up, let it in.