PF.After long days in the hospital, Will Roberts quietly pushes his wheelchair to the mailbox—and finds strength not only from medicine, but from letters that prove he has never fought alone.

I love this picture.

Not because it is perfectly framed or staged, but because it captures something real. Something tender. Something that tells a story without needing many words. Brittney Roberts shared it after catching a quiet moment—her son Will sitting there, reading the cards and letters that have made their way back home to him.

Just a boy.
Just his mail.
Just a moment that means everything.

Will Roberts is fourteen years old, but anyone who knows him will tell you he carries the heart of an old soul. He has a steadiness about him, a depth that feels uncommon for someone his age. He believes in family. He believes in prayer. He believes in miracles, not as a concept, but as something real and possible.

And he believes in people.

He believes in you when you take a moment to reach out. When you write a few words. When you send encouragement without expecting anything in return. That belief matters more than you may ever realize.

Will is fighting bone cancer.

Those words are heavy no matter how many times they are spoken. Months ago, in the fight to save his life, doctors amputated his left leg at the knee. In an incredible medical effort, his foot was reattached to provide a base for his prosthetic. It is a solution born of innovation and necessity, but it does not lessen the loss or the courage it took to face it.

Learning to live in a changed body is not something that happens overnight. It requires patience, resilience, and a willingness to try again on days when everything feels harder than it should. Will has done that quietly, without complaint, leaning on faith and determination when words fall short.

Just over a week ago, his journey demanded even more.

Doctors at MD Anderson in Houston removed tumors from Will’s pelvis and his right femur. Surgery is never easy, but when it comes after months of fighting, it carries a particular kind of exhaustion. Still, Will endured it the way he has endured everything else—with strength that doesn’t ask for attention.

Two days ago, he finally made it back home, just outside Tuscaloosa.

Home.

That word means something different when you’ve spent so much time away from it. Home is not just a place—it is relief, familiarity, and the comfort of knowing where you are. After everything he has been through, simply being back mattered.

Not long after returning, Will did something that says everything about who he is.

He wheeled himself down to the mailbox.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t announced. He just went. On the way back to the house, he stopped halfway up the driveway. Not because he was tired, but because something caught his attention.

The mail.

He paused right there, in the open air of his own driveway, and began reading the cards and letters people had sent him. One by one. Slowly. Intentionally. Each envelope carrying words from someone who chose to show up in the simplest way possible.

That image says more than a thousand updates ever could.

Because in that moment, Will wasn’t just a patient or a diagnosis or a teenager facing terrifying decisions. He was a boy being reminded that he is seen. That people care. That hope has not forgotten his address.

Will can use that encouragement now more than ever.

In the coming days, doctors will begin planning the next course of treatment. Conversations will happen about what comes next, about the possibility of more chemotherapy, more radiation, more waiting. Even the bravest hearts feel nervous standing on the edge of those decisions.

Will feels it too.

And that is exactly why he needs us now.

He believes in the power of prayer. He believes in God’s healing. He believes that miracles still happen, even when the road looks long and uncertain. His faith is not loud, but it is steady. It shows up when fear tries to take over and refuses to let go.

But there is something else Will believes in.

He believes in us.

He believes that people will show up when things get hard. That kindness is real. That encouragement matters. That words written by strangers can still carry weight and meaning when they arrive at the right time.

That belief is not misplaced.

So maybe today, you leave him a comment. Maybe you share his story so others know his name. Maybe, if you have a moment, you write a short note and drop it in the mail. Nothing fancy. Nothing perfect. Just a few honest words meant for a fourteen-year-old boy who is fighting harder than he ever should have to.

Because Will Roberts will wheel himself to that mailbox again.

He will open your letter.

And he might stop halfway up the driveway to read it.

And in that pause—between the mailbox and the house, between fear and faith, between what has been lost and what still remains—hope will find him again.

And sometimes, that is exactly what keeps a young man going.