Son.Recent scans offer a glimmer of hope for survival: The cancer in his leg is no longer active and all metastases have disappeared — a huge relief for his family.

God had answered their prayers.

Not with thunder or sudden certainty, but with a quiet, trembling miracle that arrived through a phone call, a scan result, and the steady voice of an oncologist who had learned to balance hope with truth.

The news that day was not an ending.

It was a pause.

A breath.

A fragile victory in a war that had demanded more from this family than they ever imagined they could give.

For months, hope had felt expensive.

Every scan carried the weight of fear.

Every appointment felt like walking toward a verdict.

But today, something shifted.

The PET scan was positive.

Not perfect.

Not final.

But undeniably, undeniably hopeful.

Doctors at MD Anderson and Children’s of Alabama had both reviewed the results, their conclusions aligning in a way that felt almost sacred.

They agreed the scan showed progress.

They agreed it showed response.

They agreed it was good news in a season where good news had been painfully rare.

There were still two nodes in his lungs.

They had grown.

They were cancer.

That truth landed hard, as it always did.

But the scan revealed something else.

Those nodes were necrotic.

Dead cancer cells.

Cells that once threatened life now showed signs of surrender.

At some point, surgery would be required to remove them.

Another battle awaited.

Another scar would be earned.

But for now, the enemy had weakened.

And that mattered.

More than words could capture.

Then came the news about his right leg.

The skip metastasis that once haunted every conversation, every surgical plan, every what-if scenario.

It was dead.

Completely.

Irrefutably.

The cancer cells there had lost their fight.

Praise filled the room, quiet but overwhelming.

There would be another surgery before leaving MD Anderson to remove the dead tissue.

But the threat itself was gone.

Another answered prayer.

Another moment where fear loosened its grip, if only slightly.

The left leg carried its own miracle.

The skip lesion there was dead as well.

Removed during the rotationplasty.

Gone before it could grow.

Gone before it could complicate the surgery or make it impossible altogether.

Doctors acknowledged what the family already felt in their bones.

Had it grown, everything could have changed.

But it didn’t.

And because of that, the path forward remained open.

Another prayer answered before it even fully formed.

The oncologists reviewed the treatment plan next.

No changes were needed.

The MAP chemotherapy regimen would continue as planned.

Three more months.

Three more months of poison and hope intertwined.

Three more months of exhaustion, nausea, courage, and endurance.

Once released by Dr. Val Lewis, the surgeon who had already changed the course of this child’s life, the journey would continue.

The road ahead remained long.

But it was clearer than it had been in months.

This update did not come from the mother.

It came from the father.

Not because love was divided.

But because roles had quietly formed in the fire.

He was the encourager.

The one who believed before proof arrived.

The glass-half-full soul who searched for light even when shadows crowded the room.