For months, I had watched him battle through treatments that would break most adults. I had watched him lose his hair, lose his strength, lose pieces of his childhood. But what amazed me most was that he never lost his softness. He never lost that gentle smile that seemed to lift everyone around him.
The doctors spoke in calm, controlled voices. They used phrases like “comfort care” and “end-of-life plan,” trying to soften the blow. But nothing could soften it enough. Their faces said everything before their words even reached my ears. Liam’s body was tired. Too tired. They told me it was time to take him home. Time to let him rest.
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