Mrs. Patterson, a kind woman with gentle eyes and a weary smile, greeted me at the front desk. She invited me to look around and take my time. I walked slowly through the rooms where children were building towers with blocks, coloring at tables, and playing tag in small groups. Their laughter should have been carefree, but I could sense the weight each child carried. Every smile seemed to hide a story too heavy for their young shoulders.
“A house,” she whispered.
“Is it your house?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. It’s the one I want someday, with big windows so I can see the stars.”
My throat tightened at her words. “That sounds perfect,” I told her.
She looked at me quietly for a moment. “What’s your name?”
I hesitated, then smiled. “You can call me whatever feels right.”
“I’m Lila,” she said softly.
Mrs. Patterson joined us and explained that Lila had been at the shelter for about a year, moving between foster homes before that. When her illness returned, the families had been unable to care for her. Lila was battling leukemia — diagnosed at age five, she had gone into remission, but the cancer had returned last spring. She was stable, but needed ongoing treatment, which was a heavy burden for most families. I turned back to Lila, who was quietly humming as she colored her imaginary house. Then I heard her small voice ask the question that broke my heart: “Do you think anyone would want me? Even if I get sick again?”
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