Patricia walked through each room and photographed the finished work.

The house was not luxurious.

It was a small, two-story place with mismatched chairs, a kitchen table scarred by old projects, and a yard that needed mowing.

But the sleeping spaces were safe and comfortable, the tools were locked away, and I had a written childcare schedule with emergency contacts.

When Patricia called to say the temporary placement could begin, I sat on the back step and cried.

Not beautifully, not quietly.