Home has a different kind of quiet.
Not the sterile hush of hospital corridors or the constant rhythm of machines—but the deep, familiar stillness that only exists when a child finally collapses onto their own couch and lets their body rest. Tonight, that’s where Will is. Knocked out. Completely spent. Safe at home.
Getting here mattered.
The “red devil” was administered without issues, a phrase that carries far more weight than it sounds. For families who live in cycles of treatment and monitoring, “without issues” is a small victory that feels enormous. No reactions. No emergencies. No sudden turns that send hearts racing back to square one.
An ultrasound brought another cautious exhale. No visible concerns with his kidneys. That fear—quiet but constant—didn’t materialize today. His creatinine levels are still slightly elevated, a reminder that the body keeps score even when things are going well. But it’s being watched. Managed. Held in balance.
There’s been weight gain too—another five pounds since the last hospital admission. In another life, that might be a throwaway detail. Here, it’s layered. Fluids. Medications. Recovery. Proof that his body has been through something big and is still recalibrating.
Most of the other numbers looked good.
That sentence lands softly but firmly. Because numbers are the language of this world now. Numbers decide whether you stay or go. Numbers determine relief or another night under fluorescent lights. And tonight, the numbers gave permission to come home.
So far, there’s been no sickness. No nausea. No sudden wave of misery that so often follows treatment days. Just exhaustion—the honest, bone-deep kind that comes after a body has fought hard and needs to shut down.
Will didn’t fight sleep.
He sank into it.
The couch has become a sanctuary, blankets pulled close, the weight of the day finally catching up to him. There’s something profoundly grounding about seeing a child sleep in a space that belongs to him, surrounded by the ordinary comforts that cancer can’t take away.
Elsewhere in the house, something else is happening.
Charlie is getting her one-on-one time with Granny Dorothy Darby Johnston.
That detail matters more than it seems.
Because siblings often learn how to wait quietly in the background of illness. They learn patience. They learn flexibility. They learn how to share attention with machines and appointments and exhaustion. And when they get their moment—undivided, intentional, just for them—it fills a space no one talks about enough.
Tonight, Charlie is being seen.
The house holds multiple kinds of healing right now. Physical rest. Emotional relief. Small pockets of joy stitched into a day that could have gone very differently.
This isn’t a victory lap. No one is pretending the road ahead is easy or predictable. Elevated labs still need watching. Weight changes still need explaining. Treatments still carry their own risks.
But tonight isn’t about tomorrow’s questions.
It’s about the fact that Will is home.
It’s about the absence of nausea. The lack of alarms. The sound of a child breathing deeply on the couch while the rest of the house moves quietly around him.
It’s about the relief that comes when a long, heavy day ends without adding new fear to the list.
Some days are loud and terrifying. Some days are painfully quiet. And some days—like this one—end with exhaustion, gratitude, and the simple, sacred gift of being home.
For now, that is enough.
