When they told us we could finally leave, I should have felt relief. Instead, a hollow weight settled deep inside me, heavier than any sleepless night or waiting hour in the hospital ward.
My daughter, little Mia, sat in her wheelchair wearing a bright pink mask, her eyes sparkling behind it. She clutched her worn stuffed bunny tight and waved shyly at every nurse we passed. She was the bravest little girl I knew — a fighter who never lost her smile despite everything.
But I was panicking.
Outside these hospital walls, our life had unraveled. Months ago, rent notices had piled up like a storm cloud hanging over us. I’d been living here with Mia through endless tests, treatments, and nights filled with quiet prayers. Her dad left long ago — no calls, no texts, no explanations. Just silence.
My job had “understood” at first, but the last paycheck was weeks behind. The calls stopped altogether two weeks ago. I knew what that meant — no income, no security, no home.
Yet I forced a smile. I brushed Mia’s hair back gently, telling her she looked beautiful. When she picked out a bright yellow balloon from the hospital gift shop, I didn’t say no, even though we couldn’t afford it. Her happiness was my only currency.
We rolled through the automatic doors into the hospital lobby. It smelled of antiseptic and hope. But my heart was heavy.
Then, two police officers entered quietly, their serious faces cutting through the soft chatter of visitors.
“Mrs. Ivanova?” one of them called softly.
I nodded, my throat tightening.
“We need to discuss something important with you,” the other said, motioning us to a nearby bench.
I squeezed Mia’s hand and swallowed hard. Whatever came next, I knew our fragile world was about to shift again.