Doctors said there were no guarantees.
I remember the exact moment those words landed—how my chest tightened, how I held my breath as if doing so might keep everything from falling apart 💔.

My daughter, Emily, was 15.
Overnight, our life changed. Ordinary days disappeared and were replaced with scans 🩻, blood tests 🧪, treatments 💉, and waiting rooms that never truly felt quiet. Ten months of medicine schedules taped to the wall 📋. Ten months of sleeping in a chair 🪑, listening for every breath, every movement, every sound that might mean something was wrong.

Emily lost her energy…
then, slowly, she began to find it again 🌱.

Some days she cried 😢—the kind of tears that come from exhaustion and fear.
Most days, though, she smiled anyway 🤍. A smile that said, I’m still here. A smile that carried us both through moments I didn’t know how we’d survive.

Before one of the hardest weeks, she picked out a sweater 🧥. She held it up, traced the fabric with her fingers, and said softly,
“I’ll wear this when it’s over.” ✨

I didn’t say anything.
I just folded it carefully and kept it close 🤲—a promise I was afraid to believe in, but couldn’t let go of.

Today, Emily pulled that sweater on by herself 💪.
She stood in front of the mirror 🪞, adjusted the sleeves, looked at her reflection, and smiled 😊.

“See? I told you.” 🌈

And this time…
I believed her ❤️