Fifteen years ago, one of our brothers lost his granddaughter to cancer. Watching him crumble in the hospital corridor left a scar on all of us. From that day forward, we made a vow: no child should fight this battle alone. Every Thursday, one of us visits the children’s hospital to read, play, or simply sit with those who have no one.
Most kids fear me at first. I get it. But the moment I start reading, using silly voices or telling stories, the fear melts. Kids don’t pretend. When they let you in, it’s real.
I thought that’s how it would be with the new girl in room 317.
The nurse warned me. “New admission. Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. No family visits. Ever.”
I froze.
“No family at all?”
She shook her head. “Her mother dropped her off and never returned. CPS is involved. If she stabilizes, foster care. If not…” Her voice cracked. “She’ll die here. Alone.”
Alone.
I’ve lost people. I’ve felt grief and guilt. But imagining a child dying alone… it was a cruelty even I couldn’t bear.
I knocked gently. “Hi there… I’m Jack. Would you like me to read you a story?”