Not when he first got sick.
Not when the doctors said the leukemia was aggressive.
Not when they told us we didn’t have time to waste.
For illustrative purposes only
I walked slowly to the bed and took his hand carefully, afraid of hurting him.
His fingers felt so small in mine.
“I’m here now,” I said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He nodded gently, like that was enough.
Like my presence alone fixed everything.
I looked up at my husband.
He stood by the door, watching us, too tired to even hope.
“It’s not too late to start the transplant, right?” I asked.
For a moment he didn’t answer.
Then he rubbed his face and said, “We still have time. But we need to act fast.”
I squeezed the boy’s hand.
