It was 90 degrees at the neighborhood block party—music, food trucks, kids everywhere. I was working the outreach table with two officers when a little girl, no more than four, walked up. She had a melting freezer pop in one hand and a folded note in the other. It wasn’t from her. It was from her mom.

The rushed handwriting said she couldn’t care for her daughter anymore—no food, no safety, nowhere to turn. She hoped someone in uniform would “do the right thing.” At the bottom: “Her name is Lila. She likes dinosaurs and pancakes.”

My heart sank. Surrounded by music and laughter, this little girl had just been entrusted to strangers. We called it in, kept her close, and waited for social services. That night she went to an emergency foster home. Weeks later, we finally found her mom, Marisol, living in her car. She’d lost her job, battled depression, and left Lila with us because she believed it was the only way her daughter could be safe.

But instead of losing Lila forever, social services gave her support: counseling, job training, housing help. Slowly, Marisol rebuilt her life. Lila visited often, and eventually, they were reunited.A year later, I was invited to Lila’s 5th birthday. She ran up, hugged me, and shouted, “You saved me!” I smiled and said, “No, kiddo. Your mom saved you. She’s the real hero.”

The lesson? Love doesn’t mean perfection. It means showing up, asking for help, and never giving up—even when you feel like you’re falling apart.