By Andrew Hoxha 
When they told us we could finally leave the hospital, I thought I’d feel relief. Instead, I felt… hollow. My daughter Callie grinned beneath her tiny mask, her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm as she waved at the nurses like they were old friends. I tried to match her energy. But inside, I was unraveling. We didn’t have a home to return to. The rent had lapsed months ago—sacrificed so I could sleep on a vinyl chair beside her hospital bed, day in and day out, through chemo and blood draws and quiet prayers whispered at midnight. Her father vanished long before the diagnosis. My job had been “understanding” until their calls stopped. Two weeks ago.