“YOU DON’T HAVE A HOME AND I DON’T HAVE A MOM!” the little girl declared to the young homeless woman at the bus stop.

Isabela Morales wobbled on the sidewalk, barefoot in the melting snow that slipped between her toes. The beige lace dress she had worn to the company Christmas dinner now made her shiver uncontrollably. Her hands still trembled from the shove her stepfather, Ramón, had given her when she tried to reach for her shoes. “Please, just let me grab my shoes,” she had begged, banging on the wooden door.

“There’s nothing of yours in this house,” he had shouted from inside. “You should be grateful for everything I’ve done for you after your mother died.”

Snowflakes fell more heavily now. Isabela wrapped her arms around herself, the cold squeezing the breath from her lungs. Three years.

Three years. She had endured the looks, the CVAs, the comments, the inappropriate jokes. But tonight, when Ramón had cornered her in the kitchen after a few too many drinks, she couldn’t take it anymore. Her numb feet instinctively carried her to the bus stop, where she waited every morning to go to her dance academy. The metal-and-glass shelter seemed like a palace at that moment.

She collapsed onto the bench, huddling against the biting wind. “Miss, are you okay?” Isabela looked up. A little girl, no older than ten, was watching her with brown eyes full of concern. She wore a gray wool hat, an oversized red coat, and worn military boots.

She was holding a crumpled paper bag in her hands. “I’m fine,” Isabela lied, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. The girl tilted her head, studying her with unsettling maturity. “You don’t look fine. You’re shaking and don’t have shoes. What are you doing here so late? Where are your parents?” A sad smile crossed the child’s face. “I don’t have parents. Well, I had a mom.”

“But she went to heaven three years ago. Now, I live in different homes.”

Isabela’s heart tightened. Foster care. The girl lived in the system. “And you?” the little one asked. “Where do you live?” Isabela felt a lump in her throat. The words slipped out before she could stop them. “I don’t have a home.”

The little girl nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She walked over to the bench and sat beside Isabela, opening her paper bag. “Here,” she said, breaking a sandwich in half. “It’s good. Mrs. Carmen gave it to me this morning. You can have it.” Isabela hesitated. “Why can’t I accept your food?”

“Because I have it, and you don’t,” the girl replied simply. “That’s how things work.” Isabela took the piece of sandwich with trembling hands.

It was simple, ham and cheese, but it tasted so good after not having eaten all day. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Esperanza García, but everyone calls me Espe. And you?”
“Isabela. Just Isabela.”

Esperanza studied her with those too-wise-for-her-age eyes. “You know what, Isabela?”
“What?”
“You don’t have a home, and I don’t have a mom,” she said with devastating simplicity.

“But now we have each other, even if just for tonight.”

Tears freely flowed down Isabela’s cheeks. This child, who had lost so much, was offering her the little she had. Her heart, which had been closed from pain and betrayal, began to crack.

“Espe, I—”

A male voice interrupted them. A tall man was walking toward them from the street, his dark hair covered in snow, his expression genuinely concerned. He wore medical scrubs under a black coat. “Are you both okay?” he asked, stopping a few feet away. “It’s very late, and it’s freezing out here.”

Isabela instinctively tensed, holding Esperanza tighter.

“Men don’t come up to women on the street just out of kindness. They always want something,” she replied firmly, though her blue lips betrayed her.

The stranger frowned, noticing Isabela’s bare feet and Esperanza’s age. “I’m Dr. Mateo Ruiz. I work at San Rafael Children’s Hospital, just down the block.”

“I’m coming off my night shift, and sorry, but you can’t stay here. The temperature’s going to drop to -10 degrees tonight.”

“Are you a pediatrician?” Esperanza asked with curiosity.
“I’m a child psychologist. Yes.”
“So you help sad kids?” she asked.
“I try,” Mateo smiled gently.

Isabela observed their exchange, her protective instincts on high alert, but also recognizing something genuine in the man’s voice. Esperanza seemed calm, and that child had a radar for sensing danger.

“Look, doctor,” Isabela began. “I appreciate your concern, but we’re—”

“We’re family,” Mateo interrupted softly.

Isabela and Esperanza exchanged a look. They had shared more honesty in the last 20 minutes than Isabela had with any adult in years. “We’re just two people who need each other,” Esperanza finished with that unsettling wisdom.

Mateo studied them a moment longer, making a decision that would change everything.

“My apartment is five minutes away. It has heat, hot food, and a pull-out couch. You can stay until tomorrow, while we figure something better out.”

“Why would you do that for us?” Isabela asked, distrust creeping into her voice.

Mateo pointed to Esperanza, who had started to shiver despite her coat. “Because she’s a child, and you’re barefoot in the snow, and because sometimes doing the right thing is the only option you have.”

The snow began to intensify, and Isabela felt Esperanza snuggling closer to her. What real alternative did she have?

“Do you think we can trust him?” Esperanza whispered.
“I think we can,” Isabela murmured, feeling the weight of a decision that could either save them or ruin them completely.

Isabela slowly opened her eyes, confused by the warmth surrounding her body. It wasn’t the cold dampness of the bus stop bench, but the soft embrace of a wool blanket. She sat up, discovering she was on a beige sofa in an unfamiliar living room, the events of the previous night crashing over her. Ramón, the snow, Esperanza, the doctor.

“Good morning.”

Isabela spun around. Mateo Ruiz was in the kitchen, making coffee, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt. The morning light streaming through the windows revealed a modest but cozy apartment. Books were stacked everywhere, smiling children’s photographs adorned the walls, and plants needed water.

“Where’s Esperanza?” Isabela asked, getting up immediately.

“Sleeping in my room. I let her have the bed because she insisted the couch was for you. That girl has more manners than most adults.”

Isabela relaxed slightly but kept her distance. “Listen, Dr. Ruiz—”
“Mateo. Please, call me Mateo.”
“Mateo, I appreciate what you did last night, but we can’t stay.”
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Mateo asked, handing her a cup of coffee.

Isabela avoided his gaze. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“I know you protected a stranger’s child in a snowstorm,” Mateo replied. “I know you have a college education by the way you speak. And I know something terrible happened last night because no woman willingly walks barefoot in winter.”
The words hit Isabela like punches. She wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket, feeling the vulnerability like an open wound.

“I’m not your responsibility,” she whispered.
“You’re right, but Esperanza wasn’t my responsibility last night either, and I still cared for her.”

Before Isabela could answer, the bedroom door opened. Esperanza emerged with her hair messy and one of Mateo’s sweaters reaching her knees.

Isabela rushed to her. “I thought you were gone.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you, little one,” Mateo watched them with what looked like admiration.

“Esperanza, did you have breakfast?”
“No, but I can wait. I’m used to it.”
The casualness of her answer broke something inside Isabela. No 10-year-old should be used to being hungry.

“I’ll make scrambled eggs for all of us,” Mateo announced.
“Esperanza, can you help me set the table?”
“Sure.”

As Isabela watched them work together in the kitchen, she studied Mateo more closely. He was in his early thirties, she figured, with soft hands that spoke of work that didn’t require physical strength. His apartment had diplomas on the walls. Child Psychology from Complutense University of Madrid, specializing in pediatric psychology. Gregorio Marañón Hospital. It was real. He really was a psychologist.

“What do you do, Isabela?” Mateo asked while serving the eggs.

“I used to work. I taught dance at a small academy. I also studied therapy through movement.”
“Do you like working with children?”
Isabela glanced at Esperanza, who devoured her eggs like she hadn’t eaten in days.

“I like helping people find ways to express themselves when words aren’t enough.”
“That’s beautiful,” Esperanza said, her mouth full. “Can you teach me to dance?”
“Of course.”

The doorbell rang, interrupting the moment. Mateo frowned. “I’m not expecting anyone.” He went to the door and looked through the peephole.

“It’s an older woman with a folder. She says she’s from child protection services.”

Esperanza’s face turned pale. “It’s Carmen, my social worker.”
Isabela felt a rush of panic. They were going to separate her from Esperanza. They were going to take her away. “How did she know you were here?” she whispered.

“I reported my location last night,” Mateo explained. “It’s protocol when a minor is involved.”

Esperanza grabbed Isabela’s hand tightly. “I don’t want to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Isabela promised, though she had no idea how she was going to keep that promise.

Mateo opened the door. Carmen walked in, followed by a woman in her thirties wearing an expensive suit and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Dr. Ruiz, I’m sorry to bother you so late. This is Lucía Mendoza, director of the Child Welfare Department.”

Isabela felt the ground shift beneath her. A director doesn’t come in person unless something is very wrong.

“Miss Morales,” Lucía said, her voice as cold as ice. “We need to talk.”

“What about?” Isabela asked, her heart pounding in her chest.