“Okay,” I said.
My voice felt steadier than I expected.
“Then call them. Book the earliest date.”
My husband stared at me.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
The boy’s fingers tightened around mine.
Standing there beside his bed, surrounded by drawings and a box of tiny paper stars, something inside me finally shifted.
Kindness isn’t about DNA.
It isn’t about how long someone has been in your life.
It’s about showing up when it really counts.
And it took a nine-year-old boy—folding paper stars through pain and hope—to teach me that.
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