At three o’clock in the morning, the hospital had a completely different feel to it.
The hallway was dimly lit, the soft light barely illuminating the floor.
The machines emitted a steady, cold sound, a reminder that time does not stop because of fear.
In a small room at UAB Hospital, fourteen-year-old Will Roberts was still awake.
Her eyes widened, staring at the ceiling, following the moving shadows as the nurse walked past the door.
This is not how a teenager should experience the night.
At fourteen, nights should have been filled with unfinished homework, whispered conversations with friends, and long, drawn-out dreams about the future.
For Will, the night had become a battlefield.
I battled bone cancer for a period of time that many people around me couldn’t even imagine.
The illness came to her silently, like a question no one wants to face.
Then it became clearer, heavier, and more demanding.
It takes over during the day and invades at night as well.
The pain usually becomes most intense around three in the morning.
Will’s right leg ached intensely, a sharp pain that medication could only partially alleviate.
My shoulder was burning, the pain radiating down my arm and into my chest.
Every movement reminds me that something inside is trying to steal what belongs to me.
Childhood.
Power.
Future.
Will didn’t cry.
She clenched her jaw and breathed through the pain, in the way she had learned after months of treatment, scans, and waiting.
Will’s bravery was quiet.
It was quiet.
It is demonstrated through endurance.
Sitting in the chair next to the bed was my mother, Brittney.
She couldn’t sleep.
Now that has become commonplace.
Her eyes were red and swollen, and her body was stiff from hours of trying to maintain her composure.
She watched the monitor to track her son’s breathing.
Each breath is a small victory.
At three o’clock in the morning, Brittney’s thoughts weighed heavier than the night itself.
She knew what the doctors had discovered.
She knew what lay ahead.
Just one day earlier, Will had been at UAB’s Kirkland Clinic, standing still while doctors measured him and put a cast on his leg.
The plaster casts weren’t from broken bones.
They are for the purpose of accuracy.
Upcoming radiation therapy sessions.
Approximately five times, according to estimates from the radiation oncologists.
Five careful attacks on the relentless disease.
New tumors have appeared.
In the right femur.
In the tibia.
On the left clavicle.
In the humerus.
Each location serves as a reminder that cancer is never fair.
At three o’clock in the morning, Brittney repeated those words in her head.
New tumor.
Add radiation therapy.
More pain.
Adding to the fear.
She looked at her son, his face pale in the dim light, and wondered how a child could bear such a heavy burden.
Will stirred slightly, wincing as the pain flared up.
Her hand searched unconsciously until it grasped her mother’s hand.
She tightened her grip immediately.
Nobody said anything.
At three in the morning, words often become powerless.
Fear filled every available space.
Will has always been called brave.
That’s what the doctor said.
That’s what the nurse said.
Those who followed my story said the same thing.
But courage doesn’t mean the absence of fear.
That night, fear crept in silently.
Afraid of radiation therapy.
Afraid of what it will do to the body.
I’m worried about whether it will be enough.
Afraid of pains they’ve never experienced.
Fear of a future suddenly becoming fragile.
Then, when the pain subsided a little, Will asked for a phone call.
Her hands trembled slightly as she held it.
I wrote down a message.
Not because I was asked to.
Because gratitude has become the way I exist.
She was talking about gratitude.
I appreciate your prayers.
Thank you for your concern.
I appreciate those who have never met me but still follow my journey.
Her voice trembled as she spoke about her fear.
I’m not hiding anything.
At fourteen, I understood that sometimes the truth is the most powerful thing.
At three in the morning, Brittney listened as her son said things no child should ever say.
She turned away, silently wiping away her tears.
She knew morning would come.
The doctors will be back.
The plan will be reviewed.
The radiotherapy schedule will be finalized.
Life will go on, whether they are ready or not.
But in that moment, time slowed down.
The mother and daughter sat together in silence, surrounded by machines, pain, and uncertainty.
Will’s battle with bone cancer has never been easy.
It requires strength beyond your age.
It forced me to grow up too soon.
But even in the darkest hours, something within me refused to give up.
At three in the morning, courage was demonstrated through staying awake all night.
By enduring pain without complaining.
By showing gratitude to others even when you are filled with fear.
As dawn broke, the room became brighter.
The night did not end the war.
But it shows one thing very clearly.
Even in critical moments.
Even when the illness is serious.
Even when the future looks uncertain.
Hope can still exist.
Noiseless.
Not perfect.
But it exists.
And for Will Roberts, that much hope is enough to face a new day.
