We finally understand why Evan hasn’t been himself lately. The signs were there—the fatigue, the headaches, the way he’d wince when he moved wrong. But we hoped. We prayed. We told ourselves it was something else, anything else. Because Evan had already fought leukemia once. And no child should have to do it twice.
But the cancer came back. This time, it’s not just in his bone marrow. It’s in his spinal fluid, causing unbearable headaches and back pain that no child should ever have to endure. The doctors say the treatment will be tougher than before. That he’ll need a bone marrow transplant. That the road ahead is long, uncertain, and filled with pain.
When I told him the cancer had returned, he broke down in tears. And so did I. Because what do you say to a child who’s already been through hell? How do you tell them they have to go back? How do you find the words to explain that the monster they thought they’d defeated is standing at the door again, demanding another fight?
Evan is strong. Stronger than I ever knew a child could be. But strength doesn’t make pain hurt less. It doesn’t make needles easier. It doesn’t erase the fear that creeps in late at night when the hospital room is quiet and the beeping of machines is the only sound. Strength just means you keep going, even when every part of you wants to stop.
Last night, I stood in the shower, hoping the water could wash away the fear. But it didn’t. It never does. Because this isn’t the kind of fear that rinses off. It’s the kind that sits in your chest, heavy and constant, the kind that wakes you up at 3 a.m. and whispers all the worst possibilities. It’s the kind of fear only parents of sick children understand—the terror of loving someone so much and being utterly powerless to take their pain away.
No child should have to fight cancer twice. No child should lie in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, wondering why their body betrayed them again. No mother should have to watch her son suffer and feel so helpless.
But here we are. And all I can do is what I’ve done from the beginning: show up. Hold his hand. Tell him I love him. Pray with everything I have that this time, the fight ends differently. That this time, the cancer loses for good.
Please, keep my little boy in your prayers. Evan needs every bit of hope, every good thought, every ounce of collective belief that he’s going to make it through this. Because I can’t do this alone. And neither can he. We need the world to believe with us that miracles still happen. That children like Evan—brave, beautiful, exhausted children—deserve to win.
He’s lying in that hospital bed right now, trying to rest despite the pain. Trying to be brave despite the fear. And I’m sitting beside him, doing the same. Because that’s what we do. We keep going. We keep fighting. We keep believing that one day, this will all be over. And Evan will get to be a kid again—not a patient, not a fighter, just a kid.
A mother’s heartbreak. Evan’s battle begins again. And this time, we’re asking the world to stand with us.