VT. Will Roberts’ mother tried to remain calm while pushing her wheelchair after the bad news from the doctor — then Will asked, “Has it spread?” And the boy’s silence frightened the adults as well.

There are moments that make you realize fear doesn’t always come from big things. Sometimes it comes from a very short statement from a doctor. Sometimes it comes from a scan report. And sometimes… it comes from the simplest question a child asks.

Yesterday, after reading the scan results and hearing the oncologist say that the treatment didn’t seem to have any effect on the new findings, I walked out of the hospital in a state of chilling panic. Not the loud kind. No screaming. No collapsing. But a coldness that ran down my spine, making my limbs numb, as if everything around me had suddenly become strange.

I walked toward the parking lot, trying to control my breathing.

Because right beside me was Will.

We had never hidden anything from Will about the diagnosis. I always believed that a child has the right to know the truth about their own life, in the gentlest way possible. I still spoke to my son in a calm voice, even though some of my words made my heart ache as if it were being squeezed. And today was no different.

I pushed his wheelchair through the parking lot. A gentle breeze blew, but I felt nothing. I tried to keep my voice steady, as if everything was fine, as if I was still in control of the world. I told Will I would text the doctor at MD Anderson. I said that chemotherapy didn’t seem to be bringing us the results we hoped for. I chose my words very carefully, because just one wrong word… could shatter a child.

Will looked up at me.

Those eyes held more than just worry. They held something that any mother would find heartbreaking: the forced maturity of a child compelled to understand something even adults didn’t want to understand.

And then Will asked.

A short question, but it left me breathless, my heart sinking:

“Has it… spread, Mom?”

In that moment, I felt like the parking lot was gone, the afternoon was gone, the footsteps around me were gone. Only that question echoed, piercing my veins. I wanted to say “no.” I wanted to say something that would reassure him immediately. I wanted to take all the pain upon myself.

But I also knew: what he needed most right now wasn’t comforting words. It was a support system—and that support system had to be built on truth.

I told him the truth: there were some new findings, and the PET scan results didn’t clearly show the old ones.

As I spoke, I observed his face, afraid that even a small wrinkle on his forehead could become a large crack in a child’s heart. But Will didn’t cry. Will didn’t react the way one might imagine. He just… remained silent.

Will was silent the entire way out of the parking lot.

A thick, heavy silence, so heavy that even an adult could be afraid. It wasn’t a silence of anger. It wasn’t a silence born of incomprehension. It was the silence of a mind questioning itself: “So what? How much time do I have left? Do I still have a chance?”

I looked at my son.

I didn’t know what a mother should do when her child is consumed by such overwhelming questions. You can’t fight cancer with your bare hands. You can’t switch places with your child. You can’t negotiate with fate. You can only… stay, and try to find something small to keep your child from sinking into the abyss.

I asked Will gently:

“Do you feel any different than you did this morning?”

Will stared at me blankly, as if he didn’t understand why I was asking. I asked again, more gently, more slowly, as if each word were a thread pulling him out of his fear:

“The only thing different from when you woke up… is what?”

Will couldn’t answer.

I knew he couldn’t answer, because all that echoed in his head was probably the question: “Has it spread yet?” I knew he was lost in thoughts a child shouldn’t have to carry.

And then, I whispered.

I whispered not to deny the fear. Not to sugarcoat reality. But to remind him—and myself—that we still have a place to stand:

“Nothing is different, son.”

Nothing is different from this morning.

He’s still here.

He’s still breathing.

He’s still looking at me.

He’s still Will.

We may not be able to control the small details on the scan. But there’s one thing we can hold onto: the present.

Because sometimes, the “present” is the only thing that saves people from the fear of the future.

And in that moment, amidst the ordinary parking lot, the most significant thing wasn’t the scan results, the hospital, or MD Anderson…

But a mother trying to keep her voice calm as she told her child:

“You’re still here. And today… isn’t the end.”