It was nearly 90 degrees, and the neighborhood block party was buzzing with music, food trucks, and kids running wild. I was manning the community outreach table with two officers, trying to keep things light and friendly.
Then a little girl—maybe three or four—walked right up. She held a melting blue raspberry freezer pop in one hand and a folded note in the other. Without a word, she handed us the paper.
At first, we thought it was a cute kid drawing or a thank-you card. But the note was from her mom—a desperate, rushed message begging for help. She said she couldn’t care for her daughter anymore, had no food, and was scared. The block party was the only place she felt someone might notice without calling CPS right away.
The note ended with this: “Her name is Lila. She likes dinosaurs and pancakes.”
I knelt beside the calm little girl and tried to distract her with talk about T-Rexes. Meanwhile, officers called in social services. When the social worker arrived, Lila was taken to a nearby foster home.
For weeks, we searched for answers. No one at the party knew Lila or her mom. Then, suddenly, we found her: Marisol, living in her car, trying to get help for her anxiety and depression. She’d left Lila with us because she believed we could give her a better chance.
Social services proposed a trial: Marisol would get counseling, job training, and housing support while Lila stayed in foster care, visiting regularly. It was a lifeline for both of them.
Months later, Marisol was working a diner job, in therapy, and living in subsidized housing. Lila’s visits helped rebuild their bond.
A year after that fateful day, I was at Lila’s fifth birthday. She ran to me with a big hug and a T-Rex balloon, declaring, “You saved me!”
I smiled, crouching down. “No, kiddo. Your mom saved you. She’s the real hero.”
Marisol smiled across the room, serving pancakes with dinosaur sprinkles.
Sometimes love isn’t about being perfect. It’s about having the courage to ask for help—and never giving up.
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