This was the part of being a cancer parent that tore her open from the inside.
Not the diagnosis.
Not the first scans.
Not even the word cancer itself.
It was this moment.
The moment when hope quietly stepped aside and pain took center stage again.
What was supposed to be a small surgery had turned into something far larger, far crueler, far more invasive than anyone had prepared their hearts for.
Will’s body, once strong and familiar, was now opened from one hip to the other, the incision running like a harsh reminder of how fragile childhood truly is.
Down the inside of his thigh, the marks of surgery told a story no child should ever have to carry.
Tubes emerged from everywhere.
From his arms.
From his hands.
From his neck.
From his nose.
Each tube was a lifeline, the doctors said.
But to her, they looked like reminders of how much had been taken from him.
She stood beside his bed, watching the machines breathe for him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, trying to memorize every detail of his face before the anesthesia faded.
Her heart shattered at the thought of tomorrow.
At the thought of him waking up.
At the thought of pain rushing back into his body before he even had the chance to understand why.
This was the part of childhood cancer that never became easier.
No matter how many times they walked these hospital halls.
No matter how many brave smiles they forced.
No matter how many prayers they whispered into the night.
And Thursday loomed ahead.
Another surgery.
Another attempt.
Another gamble with his tiny body.
Doctors would try to freeze two more spots, hoping they had remained stable, hoping the cancer had paused long enough to give them a fighting chance.
Hope, in this world, was always conditional.
Leaving Will that night was one of the hardest things she had ever done.
Her feet felt heavy as stone as she leaned over his bed.
Before she left, she placed his big Jesus close beside him.
She made sure it was close enough for him to feel, even if he couldn’t see it yet.
She whispered that he wasn’t alone.
That he was protected.
That he was loved beyond words.
She kissed his forehead gently, afraid to disturb the fragile peace the medication had given him.
Walking away from his room felt like tearing a piece of herself loose.
The drive back was quiet.
Too quiet.
She, Charlie, Mama, and Auntie found the car and made it back to the house without any issues.
But nothing could prepare her for opening that door.
The moment she stepped inside, the weight of reality crushed her chest.
The house still smelled like him.
Still held his energy.
Still echoed with his laughter, frozen in time.
His PlayStation remote sat exactly where he had left it.
Right there.
Untouched.
Waiting.
His beef jerky was still on the coffee table, exactly where she had told him to pick it up the night before.
Water bottles were scattered everywhere.
Evidence of a boy who had been there.
Who was supposed to still be there.
The world seemed to stop.
Her body froze in place, unable to move forward, unable to breathe normally.
Everything screamed his absence.
Last night, before everything changed again, he had said quietly, “I just wish I could stay here with y’all.”
Those words replayed in her mind like a cruel echo.
He loved this place.
Back in April, when she, Will, Jason, and his Granny had stayed here while he recovered, this house had been filled with laughter.
They had laughed so hard their stomachs hurt.
They had made memories that felt golden and safe and real.
Those days felt like a different lifetime now.
Ever since then, all Will talked about was coming back.
He wanted Granny there.
He wanted Charlie there.
He wanted everyone together again.
Coming back without him shattered something deep inside her.
She saw it on Charlie’s face too.
That same hollow look.
That same unspoken grief.
They made it to their room without saying much.
Words felt useless.
Once the door closed behind them, they collapsed into each other’s arms.
They cried together.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But in that quiet, broken way that comes when the pain is too deep for sound.
Cancer was cruel.
Cancer was unfair.
Cancer stole moments that should have been simple.
It stole childhood.
It stole peace.
It stole certainty.
Cancer sucked.
It really did.
But even in the wreckage of that night, she knew something else too.
She knew she would feel a little better when she saw that familiar strength rise up in him again.
When his eyes opened.
When his spirit pushed back against the pain like it always did.
Will had a strength that surprised everyone.
A quiet courage that didn’t ask for attention.
Today was just tough.
Today was one of those days that tested everything they believed in.
Tomorrow, they would show up again.
They always did.
