The fence caught my arm as I squeezed between the rusty bars, and pain sliced into my skin, but I barely paid attention to it.

The abandoned hospital loomed ahead of me, silent and decayed, as if watching my every step. I could hear my own ragged breathing as I made my way toward the side entrance.

Inside, the air was heavy, with a sharp hospital smell that tightened my throat. I froze when I heard muffled voices, and words about gloves and the fear of ruining something made my heart beat even faster.

I pushed the door open and said my daughter’s name, feeling my voice tremble.

Linda turned around, going pale, and at that same moment I saw a woman on the bed, fragile and almost transparent. In that look, in the way Linda was holding her hand, there was no rebellion or secrecy — there was care.

Later she quietly explained that she comes there with friends to be close to those who have no one left.

I felt ashamed of all my fears and suspicions. I looked at my daughter and, for the first time, clearly understood that she is growing up not in spite of me, but beside me.

Sometimes love is not control, but the ability to take a step back and allow a child to be themselves.