He nodded, a silent acknowledgment that didn’t quite comfort. “Alright, we’re going to check it out. Stay here.” And with that, he and another officer moved past me, their hands hovering near their holsters as they stepped inside.

The moments stretched on, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the neighborhood—children playing somewhere down the street, the faint rumble of a passing car, the gentle rustle of winter leaves. I could see the cleaner, still on the porch steps, her face a mask of worry and regret. She glanced up at me, offering a weak smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Minutes passed like molasses, each tick of time echoing in my mind. I could hear movement inside, the officers’ cautious footsteps, doors opening and closing. As I hugged my arms around myself, I saw them through the windows, systematically clearing each room.

And then, a shout from upstairs—urgent but not panicked. My heart skipped, torn between fear and the urge to rush in and see what they’d found. The officers reappeared, guiding a woman down the stairs, her hands cuffed. Her eyes were wild, darting around the room, landing on me before slipping away.

“Ma’am, we found her in the guest bedroom. Looks like she’s been staying here for a while,” the officer explained as they brought her out. “Do you recognize her?”

I looked closely at the woman. Her clothes were rumpled, and her face was smudged with something like dust or ash, but there was something familiar. I shook my head. “No… I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

The officer sighed, a sound full of the weight of long days and longer nights. “We’ll need to take her in, see what she can tell us. Looks like she’s been squatting here. The cleaner’s call was a good one. Could have been much worse.”

Just then, my husband’s car pulled up. I watched as his face shifted from concern to shock, and then to something I couldn’t quite place as he took in the scene—the police, the woman, and me standing there, trying to hold it all together.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice tight with confusion and the beginnings of anger.

I gestured helplessly at the unfolding scene. “She was in our house. I don’t know how long or why…”

As the officers bundled the woman into the back of a patrol car, my husband wrapped his arms around me, grounding me, even as the questions swirled. There would be explanations needed, security measures to review, and a conversation with the kids about safety at home.

But for now, we watched the car pull away, a silent promise between us that we’d face whatever came next together.