He got up from his spot and quietly walked over.

Without a word, he crawled next to his mother, laid his head on her shoulder, and reached for her hand.

She felt the warmth of his small fingers wrap around hers — gentle, but full of meaning.

He didn’t smile.
He doesn’t smile much anymore.
He says his face feels “broken.”

But when his mother looks at him, all she sees is beauty — the kind of beauty that only comes from someone who has fought through pain and still chooses to love.

They had just spent the weekend together — her sisters visiting, the house full of laughter for the first time in months.
For a brief moment, cancer didn’t dominate every conversation.

There was food, jokes, hugs, and the sound of children running around again.
It almost felt like life before everything changed.
Almost.

Because now, everything has a shadow.
Every smile carries the weight of fear.

Every memory is marked by the word that took over their world — cancer.

She doesn’t understand it.
She never will.
Why her son?
Why this child who once ran through the yard with boundless energy, who laughed until his belly ached?

She can still see the day she first heard the diagnosis — the doctor’s mouth moving, her mind going numb, the room spinning.
That was the moment she realized: you don’t know what wholeness is until it’s gone.

But even in the wreckage, there are flickers of hope.
Her boy — Cylus — is walking again.
Slowly, carefully, but walking.

Each step feels like a miracle.
Each day without pain, a blessing.

She’s praying that the radiation is working, that it’s shrinking the tumors deep inside his body.
Because more than anything, she just wants more time.

More weekends like this.
More laughter.

More ordinary days — the kind that people take for granted, until they’re gone.

At their first outpatient appointment today, something incredible happened.
Cylus didn’t need any blood transfusions.
His labs were stable.

Even his electrolytes — the ones that had been dangerously low — were finally normal.
It felt like a small victory in a war that’s far from over.

For a parent who has lived in hospital rooms, tubes, and test results,

a win is a win.
She gave herself permission to feel proud — just for a moment.

All the things she’s been doing at home — the G-tube feedings, the fluids, the endless care — they’re working.

Her boy is stable.
He’s home.
He’s fighting.

She watches him now, sleeping beside her, his small chest rising and falling in rhythm with her own breath.
There’s exhaustion in her eyes, but also love so fierce it aches.

She knows the road ahead will be hard — more scans, more treatments, more waiting.

But tonight, she has this moment.
His hand in hers.
His head on her shoulder.

A quiet reminder that even in the middle of pain, love endures.

She prays for one more step tomorrow.
One more laugh.
And maybe, just maybe, that smile she’s been waiting for.