RM Update on Will Roberts: What Was Supposed to Be a Simple Surgery Turned Into Something Much More

This is the part of being a parent to a child with cancer that cuts the deepest.

It wasn’t the diagnosis.
It wasn’t the first scan.
It wasn’t even hearing the word “cancer” for the first time.

No, it was this moment.

The moment when hope quietly stepped aside, and all that was left was pain, the kind that never really goes away.

What was supposed to be a small surgery turned into something much more complicated, much harsher, and far more invasive than anyone had prepared themselves for.

Will’s body, once strong and familiar, now lay open from one side to the other. The incision was a constant reminder of just how fragile childhood really is.

Tubes ran from all parts of him: his arms, hands, neck, and even his nose. To the doctors, these were lifelines, a sign they were doing everything they could. But to her, they were a cruel reminder of just how much had been taken from him.

She stood at his bedside, watching the machines do the work of breathing for him, watching his chest rise and fall with the rhythm of life held together by wires and tubes. She tried to memorize every detail of his face before the anesthesia wore off, knowing how hard tomorrow would be.

Tomorrow, when he would wake up, still groggy from the drugs, and the pain would hit him all over again—before he even had a chance to understand why.

This was the hardest part of childhood cancer. No matter how many times they’d walked these hospital halls. No matter how many forced smiles they’d given. No matter how many prayers they whispered into the night.

And then, Thursday was just around the corner. Another surgery. Another chance. Another gamble with Will’s small body. The doctors were hoping they could freeze two more spots, trying to keep the cancer from spreading any further, hoping against hope that the cancer had paused long enough to let him have a fighting chance.

Hope in this world, it seemed, was always conditional.

Leaving him that night had been unbearable. Her feet felt like they were made of stone as she leaned over his bed one last time before stepping away.

Before she left, she placed his favorite Jesus figurine beside him, close enough for him to feel, even if he couldn’t see it yet. She whispered words to him, reminding him he was never alone, that he was loved beyond measure and protected no matter what.

She kissed his forehead gently, careful not to disturb the fragile peace the medication had granted him.

Walking out of his room felt like tearing apart a piece of her soul.

The drive back to the house was silent. Too silent.

When they arrived home, nothing could have prepared her for the rush of emotions that hit as she opened the door.

The house still smelled like him. His presence was still everywhere. The air held his energy. The echoes of his laughter felt like they would never fade.

His PlayStation controller sat exactly where he had left it, untouched and waiting. His beef jerky was on the coffee table, exactly where he had promised to pick it up. Water bottles were scattered all over, signs of a boy who had been there—who should still be there.

Everything screamed his absence.

It was in those moments, standing frozen in the doorway, that reality hit her hardest. Everything seemed to stop.

His words from the night before kept replaying in her mind: “I just wish I could stay here with y’all.”

He loved this house.

Back in April, when he had been recovering here with her, Will, Jason, and his Granny, the house had been filled with laughter and warmth. Those moments felt like they belonged to another lifetime now.

After everything that had happened, all Will wanted was to come back here. He wanted everyone together again. Granny. Charlie. The family reunited.

But coming back without him—it shattered something deep inside her.

She could see it on Charlie’s face too, that same hollow look, the same unspoken grief.

They made it to their room without speaking much. Words felt useless in that moment.

When the door closed behind them, they collapsed into each other’s arms, silent tears flowing. Not loud, not dramatic, but in that quiet, broken way that comes when the hurt runs too deep for words.

Cancer was cruel.

Cancer was unjust.

Cancer robbed them of simple moments, of childhood, of peace, of certainty.

It was awful. It really was.

But even in the wreckage of that night, she knew one thing. She knew that when Will woke up, when he opened his eyes, his quiet strength would rise again.

When he fought back against the pain, as he always did, it would give them the strength to keep going.

Today had been hard, but tomorrow, they would be there again. Just like they always were.