Doctors warned us she might not have much time left. But my daughter wasn’t afraid. She didn’t beg for miracles—she asked for juice, laughter, and her silly cat-covered hospital gown.
One afternoon, she whispered, “You don’t have to cry when I’m awake, okay?” I realized she was holding me together while I tried to do the same for her. She wanted Uno, pancakes, her brother’s teddy bear, and cartoons—small joys that kept life alive.
That night she asked, “Mom, if I go… will you still laugh?” I couldn’t answer, so she answered for me: “You better. Otherwise, I’ll come back just to tickle you.”
Days blurred into weeks. Slowly, her health improved. She walked halls, basked in sunlight, and finally left the hospital, laughing with neighbors at a welcome-home party.
Her stubborn joy transformed the ward—nurses, doctors, even me learned that happiness isn’t postponed. She taught us that even in the hardest moments, life can be bright.
Laugh. Drink juice. Play Uno. Live fully.
