“This is Just a Temporary Home” by JoJo

~A story about love, loss, survival and the aching belief that something better might still be coming.

Part I: Lily

Lily Monroe was seven years old the first time she realized what it meant to be invisible.

Not the kind of invisible where you play hide and seek and giggle under a blanket.

The kind where grownups avoid your eyes at gas stations. The kind where no one asks if you’ve eaten. The kind where you walk past kids your age with clean shoes and full backpacks, and you learn not to look too long or too hopeful.

She and her mama, Vanessa, had been living in the car for sixteen days. The backseat had become Lily’s room, her school, her everything. She kept her stuffed bunny tucked under her hoodie when they went inside truck stops to wash up, afraid someone would take it. Its name was simply “Bunny,” and its left eye had popped off months ago. But it was still hers. The only thing that hadn’t changed.

That night, the rain pelted the roof of the old Ford Taurus like it was angry at the world, and maybe it was. Lily lay curled in the backseat, wrapped in two thin blankets, her little body stiff from the cold and from pretending she wasn’t afraid.

Vanessa sat in the front seat, hands on the steering wheel even though the engine was off. She was twenty-nine, but heartbreak and survival had aged her fast. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her hoodie had a hole at the elbow. Her lips were chapped. Her stomach growled. She didn’t eat dinner so Lily could have an extra bag of crackers.

Lily looked up. “Mama?”

Vanessa turned, her eyes heavy. “Yeah, baby?”

“Are we gonna sleep here again?”

Vanessa swallowed the ache in her throat. “Just for tonight. Tomorrow we’re gonna call that lady from the shelter again. Maybe she has a room.”

Lily nodded slowly, then whispered, “This is just a temporary home, right? Like the song?”

Vanessa’s lips curled into the smallest, most fragile smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just temporary.”

But when Lily turned over and closed her eyes, Vanessa reached for her cracked phone and opened the weather app.

The forecast said snow by morning.

She turned toward the window and let herself cry quietly, shoulders shaking in silence, guilt bleeding through every breath.

She hated this life.

Not just for her.

But because Lily didn’t deserve to know what “survival” meant at seven years old.

Part II: Jason

Jason Hayes was thirteen when he stopped unpacking his suitcase.

He’d been in nine foster homes. Or maybe ten. It didn’t matter anymore. He stopped counting after the birthday no one remembered. After his mom told him she’d go to rehab and never called again.

He was a quiet kid, too quiet for most families. Too guarded. Too sensitive. He flinched when doors slammed and couldn’t look people in the eye when they smiled at him.

This new home was fine, he guessed. The foster mom baked muffins and said, “You’re safe now, sweetheart,” like she meant it. Her husband kept to himself and made weird jokes at dinner, but didn’t yell. So that was something.

Still, Jason left his suitcase zipped. Why bother? He’d probably be gone in a month.

The room had white walls and a twin bed with stiff sheets. On the dresser sat a stack of kids’ books and a small plastic clock. They told him he could decorate it however he wanted.

Jason sat on the bed, hands in his lap, and stared at the wall.

Safe didn’t feel safe when you knew it never lasted.

That night, as he lay in the dark, he whispered out loud to no one:

“I don’t belong here.”

He didn’t know who he was talking to. God maybe, or the version of his mom that used to brush his hair before school. He didn’t expect an answer.

But part of him still hoped that somewhere out there there was a place where he didn’t feel like a guest in his own life.

Part III: Mr. Henry

Henry Mitchell had been at Rosewood Assisted Living for six years. The place smelled like lemon cleaner and old grief.

He had outlived everyone his wife, Evelyn, who died in her sleep clutching his hand, and their only son, David, who died in a car wreck the same week he was supposed to come home from college.

Henry was 87 now. He barely spoke anymore. His hearing was going. His bones ached. His world had shrunk to a wheelchair and a window.

He sat there every day, watching the birds hop across the garden, watching the nurses come and go, watching the hours pass like ghosts.

He didn’t believe in much anymore. Not heaven. Not second chances.

Until the little girl showed up.

Lily.

She came with her mom from the shelter. Volunteering, they said, though he knew it was just part of their program to get housing. Still, Lily smiled at him like he mattered.

She brought him cookies. She asked if he liked music. She asked what heaven was like.

He told her about Evelyn. How she used to sing “Crazy” by Patsy Cline while baking. How she wore red lipstick and laughed like she had a secret.

“She was my angel,” he said.

“Do you think you’ll see her again?” Lily asked.

Henry looked out the window, tears glassing over his eyes.

“I hope so,” he said. “This place? This body? This old room? It’s not forever. It’s just the waiting room.”

He reached for her tiny hand, thin and warm.

“This is just a temporary home.”

Part IV: Where the Pieces Meet

Three years later, Lily was ten and lived in a small yellow house with peeling paint, creaky floors, and more love than she’d ever known.

Vanessa worked two jobs and still made time to read to her every night. Their couch was secondhand, and their fridge didn’t have a light inside, but it was theirs.

Jason lived down the street now. His last foster family adopted him. He still had nightmares sometimes, but he unpacked his suitcase for the first time.

He and Lily sat in the grass one afternoon after school, eating peanut butter crackers and drawing in the dirt with sticks.

“I used to think no one wanted me,” Jason said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lily looked over. “I used to think the car was gonna be our house forever.”

They didn’t say anything for a while. But they didn’t have to.

They both knew what it felt like to be forgotten.

And what it felt like to be found.

Part V: The Letter

Mr. Henry passed away in the spring.

Vanessa picked up Lily early from school and held her as she cried on the porch steps, the wildflowers swaying in the wind.

At the nursing home, the nurse handed them an envelope with a letter:

“To Lily,

You reminded me that kindness still exists. That even the smallest hands can carry light into the darkest rooms.

Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. This life is only one chapter.

The next one? That’s where the stars live.

With love,

Mr. Henry”

Part VI: Not So Temporary

On the porch of their crooked yellow house, Lily sat barefoot with her notebook open. She was writing a poem about places that don’t last and people who do.

Vanessa stepped outside with a chipped mug of tea and watched her daughter her miracle, her reason, her second chance.

Lily looked up.

“Do you think he’s happy now?” she asked.

“Mr. Henry?”

Lily nodded.

Vanessa smiled. “I think he’s home.”

Lily looked around at the house. The sunflowers Mama planted were in full bloom.

“It’s funny,” she whispered. “This used to be temporary. But now…”

Vanessa sat beside her. “Now it’s yours.”

This is just a temporary home.

But the love we give while we’re here that’s forever.