I wasn’t sure what to think when those policemen left the cake and that folded note. Three words and a phone number were all that were written on the note: “Call if unsafe.”
I didn’t even touch my phone for two days. I kept convincing myself that we were fine and that it wasn’t that serious. simply broke. Simply exhausted. Just trapped for a while.
However, we heard a banging at the front door this morning before the sun rose.
Banging, not knocking.
I noticed some officers outside when I slightly raised the shutters. Not the previous ones. These were the ones with the bold white letters POLICE ICE on their backs and dark vests.
I was at a loss for what to do. My small blanket fort was still where my kid slept. All I could think about as my heart began to race was, Who called them?
Nothing has gone wrong on our end. Since I was nine years old, I have been here. This is where I attended school. I’ve paid taxes, worked, and never received a speeding ticket. However, when someone believes you don’t belong, none of it matters.
The door was not answered by me.
We sneaked out the back gate as quietly as possible after I snatched my kid and stuffed her blanket into a duffel.
We are currently sitting a few blocks away in a friend’s vehicle. I’m holding that note tightly as I consider whether or not I should call.
Because there won’t be a way back if I do.
Even though the automobile smelled like worn leather and stale coffee, it felt safer than any other place at the moment. Marta, my daughter, was sitting next to me, holding her plush bunny. Although she hadn’t spoken much since we left, her large brown eyes were always asking me things for which I had no answers.
At last, she muttered, “Mama, are they gone?”
I stroked her hair and feigned a smile. “Yes, mija. For the time being.
I held her tight as she leaned against me while I tried to think of what to do. The note felt like it had its own heartbeat as it burnt in my hand. If it’s unsafe, call. Even so, what did that mean? From whom is it unsafe? Furthermore, who would answer the phone?
I looked at the phone number once again and used my thumb to trace the numbers. It was written so neatly—almost too neatly—as if the author wanted me to read it correctly. There was something intimate about it. As if it hadn’t been official. Or perhaps it was just an official ruse masquerading as assistance.
My thoughts were racing with potential outcomes. Perhaps it was someone posing as helpful in order to find us later. Or worse, perhaps someone was genuinely attempting to assist, but contacting required acknowledging that we were no longer able to manage things on our own. recognizing that we needed to be saved.
“Mom?” I felt Marta pull at my sleeve. “When can we return home?”
I took a deep breath. “Not just yet, sweetie.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket at that very moment. I felt sick to my stomach. I shouldn’t be receiving texts at this moment. I took it out slowly, and the screen flashed an unidentified number. Hesitantly, my finger lingered over the message icon.
Curiosity finally prevailed. I took it open.
Are you secure?
It stated nothing more. No name, no justification. Only those three words. I gasped. Is the individual who left the note the same one? How were they able to locate me?
I typed back before I could question myself: Who is this?
One minute went by, and then another. Marta yawned and moved in her chair. Wondering how long we could remain disguised, I looked at her. For heaven’s sake, this friend’s automobile was bright yellow, so it wasn’t exactly unnoticeable, but for the time being, it was our only option.
My phone then buzzed once more.
Someone who is eager to assist. I take it you found the note?
As I read the words, my hands shook. They were aware of the note, whomever it was. And they had purposefully sent me that text. However, why?
I chose to put them to the test. How can I help?
The response was prompt. By ensuring the safety of both you and your daughter. by providing you with choices.
Options. I felt like I was punched in the stomach by that word. Right now, options sounded wonderful. Anyhow, better than being blind.
I inhaled deeply before dialing the number listed on the note.
Before anyone answered, the phone rang twice. I was greeted by a woman’s steady, calm voice. “Hello?”
I stumbled, “This is… uh, this is the number from the note.” “Who are you?”
“My name is Elena,” she said. And I’m available to assist. Could you tell me your location?
I went cold. Was this a setup of some sort? If I told her, would she send people after us?
At last, I responded, “I can’t say.” “Not just yet.”
Elena said in a softer tone, “That’s okay.” “You don’t have to put your faith in me immediately. But pay close attention to what I have to say. Are there any people in the area that you could stay with for a while? Someone who isn’t directly related to you?
I considered it. An old coworker named Rosa resided a few towns away. She had always been nice, even if we weren’t tight. However, I didn’t like bringing trouble to her doorstep.
“What would happen if I refused?” I inquired.
Elena stated frankly, “Then you keep running.” However, they will eventually discover you. You’ll regret not getting in touch with them sooner when they do.
I was shocked by her candor. Most people, especially strangers, sugarcoat everything. Elena, however, didn’t care. She presented it simply, as if she had witnessed this situation much too often.
“All right,” I answered softly. “What should I do?”
Elena told me to park next to the dumpster, drive to a certain petrol station thirty minutes away, and then wait. Within an hour, she said, someone would come meet us. We could go without a word if we didn’t feel at ease.
Although that seemed dubious, desperate situations necessitate desperate actions. I sent Rosa a text to see if I could use her car for the day. Bless her heart, she consented without question and dropped it off twenty minutes later.
As we drove, Marta dozed off in the passenger seat, leaning her head against the window. I continued to stare into the rearview mirror, half expecting to see flashing lights behind us. However, the road remained deserted.
I shut off the engine and parked precisely where Elena instructed us to when we got to the petrol station. With the exception of a single truck sitting at the pumps, the area was empty. Long shadows were spread over the ground as its headlights highlighted the damaged road.
It was ten minutes. Next, twenty. The truck roared closer and parked next to us just as I was beginning to question Elena’s assurance. A man in pants and a flannel shirt came out. He appeared to be more of a farmer than a participant in whatever clandestine enterprise this was.
He gazing through my window said, “Marisol?”
I gave a wary nod.
He grinned. “My name is Carlos. I was sent by Elena.
I felt a wave of relief, but I kept one hand on the shifter so I could leave if necessary. “How can I be certain that you are truly with her?”
Carlos laughed. It’s a fair question. She instructed me to share this with you: “The cake was chocolate.” Does that sound familiar to you?
Yes, it did. Along with the note, the cops had put a tiny chocolate cake on our doorway. I somehow believed him since I knew that one thing.
I said, “All right,” and unlocked the door. “Now what?”
After showing me to his truck, Carlos gave me a burner phone. This will put you in direct contact with Elena at any time you need her. Follow me for now. We’re taking you to a secure location.
It turned out that the “somewhere safe” was a small home nestled deep in the forest. A team of volunteers greeted us kindly inside and provided us with new clothes and food. They clarified that they operated a network that assisted families much like mine in resolving legal issues and locating short-term housing.
Elena turned into a lifeline during the ensuing weeks. She helped me obtain temporary work permits, matched me with pro bono attorneys, and helped me with the paperwork. The burden on my shoulders gradually started to lessen.
Elena sat next to me one evening as Marta played with brand-new crayons that the volunteers had donated. “You underestimate your strength,” she said. Remind yourself of that.
My eyes pricked with tears. “I’m grateful. For everything.
She grinned. “You’re welcome. But keep in mind that being strong doesn’t mean working alone. It all comes down to knowing when to seek assistance.
A few months later, Marta and I were standing on a veranda with a view of a peaceful neighborhood. We were able to obtain permanent status and a new beginning because to Elena and her connections. I came to a crucial realization as I observed Marta chasing fireflies in the dusk sky:
Although we have no control over life’s storms, we do have a choice in how we respond to them and who we turn to for support.
Please tell others about this tale if it spoke to you. Let’s give people hope and remind them that asking for assistance is a sign of strength, not weakness. ❤️
