There is a specific kind of trauma in the “leaving.” It is the moment the hospital elevator doors slide shut, separating the world of the healthy from the world of the hurting. Tonight, leaving Will was one of the hardest things my heart has ever had to do. It felt like leaving a piece of my own body behind in that clinical, sterile room.
Before I walked out, I performed the only ritual I had left. I made sure his “big Jesus” statue was positioned right beside him—close enough to watch over him, to be the steady, silent sentinel during the long hours of the night when I couldn’t be there. I entrusted my son to the hands of the Creator, and then I forced my feet to move toward the exit.
The drive home with Charlie, Mama, and Auntie was quiet, the miles passing without trouble. But the real battle wasn’t on the road. The real battle was waiting for me behind the front door of our home.
The Museum of “Just One Minute Ago”
The moment I stepped through the door, the air felt different. It was heavy. It was still. Everything inside me simply fell apart.
When a loved one is in the hospital, the house becomes a museum of the life that was happening just a few hours prior. Time stops for the objects, even as it races forward for the people. I looked around, and it took my breath away:
- The PlayStation remote: It was sitting exactly where he left it on the edge of the sofa, a silent witness to the games he played and the normalcy he tried so hard to cling to.
- The beef jerky: Still there on the coffee table. I could still hear my own voice from last night, reminding him to pick it up.
- The water bottles: Scattered around the room like debris from a life interrupted.
In that moment, those mundane objects felt like holy relics. They were reminders of his presence, and their stillness served only to highlight his absence. It felt as though time had simply frozen, waiting for him to walk back in and finish what he started.
The Echo of a Whisper
Last night, in the quiet of the evening, Will whispered something that has been playing on a loop in my mind: “I just wish I could stay here with y’all.”
Those ten words carry the weight of a thousand heartbreaks. He loves this place. This house isn’t just a building; it’s a sanctuary. Back in April, when it was just me, Will, Jason, and Granny staying here while he healed, we created a world within these walls. We laughed until our sides hurt. We made memories that were so sweet they almost made us forget why we were here in the first place.
Ever since those days, Will has talked about coming back. He’s been dreaming of a “full house”—this time with Granny and Charlie added to the mix. To him, this home represents safety, laughter, and the version of himself that isn’t defined by a diagnosis. Walking back in tonight without him to fulfill that dream felt like a betrayal of that hope. It shattered me.
The Shared Ache
Grief and worry are rarely solitary, even when they feel that way. I saw the same ache reflected on Charlie’s face. There is a special bond between those who wait and those who watch. When we finally made it to our room, the weight was too much for words. We didn’t try to be brave for each other. We didn’t offer platitudes or “everything will be okay.”
We didn’t say a word. We just held each other and cried.
We cried for the empty bed at the hospital. We cried for the empty seat at our table. We cried for the unfairness of a journey that asks so much of a young soul.
The Cruelty of the Path
There is no sense in sugarcoating it: Cancer is cruel. It is a thief that steals time, comfort, and the simple joy of a Tuesday night at home. It forces children to be warriors before they’ve had a chance to be dreamers. It turns houses into museums of “what used to be.” There is no other word for it—no softer way to describe the way it tears at the fabric of a family.
But even as I sit in this heavy silence, surrounded by his things, I know this: This heaviness won’t last forever. ### The Rising Fire
I have seen the fire in Will. I know the strength that lives beneath his skin—a familiar, stubborn, beautiful strength that has carried him through every valley so far. I know that soon, I will see that fire rise up in him again. I will see him reclaim his place in this house. I will see him pick up that remote, finish that snack, and fill these rooms with the laughter that is currently missing.
Tonight was just hard. There’s no getting around it. The house is too quiet, the reminders are too loud, and the distance between the hospital and the home feels like an ocean.
And that’s okay. It’s okay to not be okay for a night. It’s okay to let the tears fall on the floorboards of the home he loves so much. Because tomorrow, the sun will rise, the “big Jesus” will still be watching over his bed, and we will find the strength to go back and fight another day.
We are holding the line. We are waiting for our warrior to come home.
A Moment for the Village:
To everyone sitting in their own “quiet house” tonight, waiting for a loved one to return—you are not alone. The silence is loud, but hope is louder. Let’s keep the lights on for Will.
👇 DROP A “❤️” TO SEND A PIECE OF HOME TO WILL IN HIS HOSPITAL ROOM TONIGHT.
#WillStrong #CancerIsCruel #HeartbreakAndHope #TheLongRoadHome #FaithThroughTheTears #WaitingForWill #StrongerTogether
