I don’t know all the words yet.
Some of them are too big, too heavy, and too frightening for a heart as small as mine.

I only know this: my mommy is sick.
The adults say the word cancer, and when they say it, their voices change. The room feels quieter. The air feels heavier. I don’t fully understand what it means, but I can feel that it’s something serious — something that makes people worry and pray and hold their breath.

The grown-ups whisper when they think I’m not listening.
Doctors speak softly, choosing their words with care.
They explain things using long sentences I can’t quite follow.

But I don’t need to understand everything to know what matters.

I know that my mom is my safe place.
When she speaks, my heart slows down.
When she holds me, the world feels less scary.
Her hugs tell me that everything will be okay — even when I don’t know if that’s true. 🤍

At night, when the house is quiet and the lights are low, my thoughts get louder.
That’s when I talk to God in my own little way.
I don’t use big words or perfect prayers.

I just ask Him to make my mom better.
I ask Him to take the sickness away.
I ask Him to let her stay with me for a long, long time. 🌙✨

I don’t ask for much.
I just want her voice in the morning.
Her hand in mine.
Her smile when she looks at me.

If you’re reading this, please pray with me.
Every prayer feels like a small light in a dark place.
Every prayer makes me feel a little less alone —
and a lot more hopeful than you could ever know.