I only meant to stop by the hospital for a few minutes—to pick up my late mother’s medical paperwork and leave. But as I walked past the oncology ward, I saw something that made me freeze in my tracks. A small boy, no older than eight, sat alone on the floor, clutching his backpack like it was the only thing keeping him safe. His shoulders shook as he tried to hold back tears, while people hurried by without even noticing him. Something inside me told me I couldn’t just keep walking. I knelt down and asked softly, “Hey there, are you okay?” He looked up with red, tear-streaked eyes and whispered, “My mom’s inside. She told me to wait, but she’s been gone a long time… I don’t want her to be sick anymore.” In that instant, I realized this boy’s world had stopped in the same hallway where mine once had.
His name was Malik. He told me he and his mom had been facing her illness alone for months. He tried to help her the only way he knew how—by selling his toys and slipping the money into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Listening to him felt like hearing my younger self speak; I had lost my mom in that same ward only weeks before. I couldn’t undo my pain, but I could stop him from carrying his alone. When Malik’s mother came out, pale but smiling weakly, I introduced myself. Her name was Mara, and she explained apologetically that children weren’t allowed inside the consultations, so Malik waited alone each time. I told her I understood—and before I left, I promised I’d visit them the next day.