Eighty-seven minutes of nonstop crying had turned first class from irritated to completely defeated. Then I left premium economy, walked past passengers wealthy enough to buy almost anything they wanted, and told the most intimidating man on the plane that his six-month-old baby didn't need another expensive bottle.

The taxi ride from Fiumicino to Trastevere ate up €45 of our precious remaining cash, leaving us with less than €230. But as the car crossed the Tiber River, showing glimpses of ancient stone buildings, cobblestone streets, and warm gold streetlight hues, a small flicker of hope blossomed in my chest.

The taxi dropped us off at the corner of a narrow, winding alleyway flanked by ivy-covered apartments. According to the address, Aunt Beatrice lived in apartment 3B of a faded yellow building with green wooden shutters.

Dragging our heavy suitcase over the rough cobblestones, I held Maya’s hand tight as we reached the heavy oak door of the building. I found the brass intercom button labeled B. Rossi and pressed it.

Silence.

I pressed it again, holding it down longer. Nothing happened.

A sudden tight feeling seized my throat. "She's probably just at the market," I whispered to Maya, trying to keep my voice light. "We'll wait."

We sat on the cool stone steps outside the building. Ten minutes turned into an hour. The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the alley. Maya's head grew heavy against my shoulder, and soon she was fast asleep, exhausted from the endless travel.

Around eight in the evening, an elderly woman carrying a brown paper bag of groceries walked up the alley, fumbling with a set of keys.

"Excuse me," I called out in halting, careful English. "Do you know Beatrice Rossi? Apartment 3B?"

The elderly woman paused, looking at me and Maya with a mix of surprise and pity. She adjusted her groceries and shook her head sadly. "Beatrice? Ah, mi dispiace, signorina. Beatrice is gone."

My heart stopped. "Gone? What do you mean gone? Did she move?"

"Three months ago," the woman explained in broken English, pointing down the street. "She was very sick. Her family... they take her to a care home in the north, near Milano. The apartment is empty now. Landlord sold it."

The world seemed to spin on its axis. The fragile safety net I had built our entire flight around evaporated instantly. We were ten thousand miles from home, in a country where we didn't speak the language, with €230 in our pockets, no family, and nowhere to go.

"Are you okay, Elena?" Maya murmured, waking up and rubbing her eyes.

"I'm fine, sweetie," I lied, my voice shaking as I forced a bright smile. "Aunt Beatrice just... had to go on a little trip. We're going to stay in a nice hotel tonight instead."

I dragged the suitcase down the street, my mind spinning frantically. Hotels in Rome required adult identification and passports, which would immediately trigger red flags for two unaccompanied minors. Hostels were equally risky.

We ended up in a small, 24-hour train station cafe near Stazione Trastevere. I bought a small cup of hot tea and a croissant for Maya just so the barista would let us sit in a corner booth. Rain began to patter against the glass windows outside.

As Maya drifted back to sleep on the vinyl bench, I pulled out my small notebook and began frantically writing down numbers, trying to calculate how many days we could survive on €230 if we only ate bread and drank tap water.