When a Child Asks for a Heart
Tomorrow is circled on the calendar, but tonight feels heavier — like the whole room is holding its breath.   The machines hum softly, the lights stay low, and she squeezes my hand with a brave little smile meant to protect me. Her glasses sit crooked, her hair is messy, her gown bright as if it could argue with fear.

She didn’t ask for answers.
She didn’t ask for promises.
She asked for one simple thing: “Can I have a heart?”
In the morning, her bed will roll through doors we can’t follow. We’ll wait with cold coffee and louder silence. But love doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it arrives as a small symbol — quiet, steady, real.

One heart can’t change the outcome.
But it can remind a child she is not alone.