I’m Samantha — a teacher and head of the children’s art club. Rory’s mother was one of the parents who always came early to pick up her son after class. But one day, something was different.
She looked tired but smiled, came up to me and said:
“Miss, I’m sorry, I’m sick.”
She smiled again, waved goodbye, and left.
In the teachers’ room, I heard some colleagues whisper, “She’s fighting stage-3 cancer.” But Rory never spoke about it. He always smiled.
During art class, he painted a family: himself, his mother, and a big bright sun. Next to it he wrote, “I don’t want my mom to leave.”
I burst into tears. That picture still hangs in my classroom today.
One day, during recess, the school gates were surrounded by ambulances. I heard that one of the parents had fainted and been rushed to the hospital.
When I arrived, I saw Rory sitting alone in the corridor, crying silently, clutching a small crayon drawing in his hands.
“Where’s your mother, Rory?” I asked, kneeling beside him.
“She’s sleeping. They said she’s sleeping,” he whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks.
My heart broke. I hugged him tightly.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
But he shook his head. “I don’t have a home anymore,” he said softly, looking at his crumpled drawing.
Later that evening, social workers arrived to help. But Rory, broken and pale, whispered the words I’ll never forget:
“My mom didn’t lose the fight. She taught me how to be brave.”
Weeks later, something miraculous happened. Rory’s father, who had been working abroad, returned and took his son home.
They planted flowers together near the playground where Rory used to wait for his mom.
Each spring, the flowers bloom again — and every child who passes by stops to smell them.
