The idea of being left alone filled me with dread. I had never been separated from my parents for extended periods before, and I was determined not to let this circumstance become the first exception. Lost in my thoughts, I noticed my father taking the documents the nurse had delivered, reading them with a cursory glance. Then, abruptly, his facial expression shifted.

"Martha."

Even though the nurse made quite a bit of noise when she came into the room, my mother continued to be deeply engrossed in her dreams.

"Martha!" my father called out again, raising his voice. Startled, my mother leaped up from the couch, immediately looking at my dad. She shook her head, covering her face with her hands.

"Could you please stop? You're always so loud," she said.

My dad passed the documents the nurse had given him to my mother. As she read through them, a look of worry appeared on her face. "We can manage this, William. It's going to be hard, but it's doable."

"How exactly do you suggest we do that?" my father asked, his voice growing louder.

"Keep your voice down," my mother whispered. "Be mindful, Samuel is still sleeping!"

They didn't realize that I was actually awake, quietly listening to their entire conversation. Arguments like this were a regular occurrence in our household. My dad always approached things realistically in their marriage, while my mom consistently injected hope and positivity into every situation. However, this was the first time I saw her optimism waver.

"We can sell the house and use that money for Sammy's treatment. We can find a smaller apartment to rent until he gets better."

My father's frown deepened. "Do you understand what 'TERMINAL' means?" He turned away. "Sammy needs a miracle. The reports say there's no chance of improvement."

His response didn't surprise me. The cost of the treatment was beyond what they could afford, and given the circumstances, the harsh truth was that it might not be worth the effort.

"So, this is it?!" my mother yelled. "You won't even try to save your own son?"

Tears started streaming down her face. She collapsed onto the couch; her face buried in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. Seeing her spirit break, my father quickly sat beside her, offering his presence for comfort.

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"Martha, I get where you're coming from," my father said, trying to console her. "But we still have our own lives to consider."

My mother, agitated, pushed my dad away and quickly wiped her tears.

"Look at him," she said. "Our lives aren't just about us anymore."

Exhausted from the ongoing argument between my parents, I found the whole situation increasingly difficult. The thought of my impending death was distressing, but even more so was the idea that my parents might lose everything just to give me a slim chance at a normal life. Determined, I threw the blankets off my face and attempted to sit up. Sadly, my strength had faded, and I found myself unable to move much at all.

Seeing my futile efforts to sit up, my mother quickly stood. With tears in her eyes, she approached and wrapped me in a tight hug. My dad, his face etched with sadness, moved closer to the bed.

"I'm sorry. I don't want to be a burden to you anymore," I said, weary from being the cause of my parents' struggles and the reason they were on the verge of sacrificing so much for my sake. "Mom...I'm ready to go home."

Caught between their tears and sacrifices, I made a vow to myself that morning. My parents shouldn't have to give up their lives for me.

"Son, you're not coming home just yet," my dad said, his words catching me off guard. I had never expected him to agree with my mom's wishes.

"You'll stay here for the time being. This way, your mom and I can spend more time with you."

I only had a faint understanding of the decision my parents were about to make, and I hadn't fully grasped the financial commitment it entailed. It never crossed my mind that their love for me would drive them to make a choice that could alter their lives permanently.

My mother took my hands in hers, offering a tender smile. "We've made the decision for you to remain in the hospital. It's a difficult choice; your condition might deteriorate if you are at home. Please understand, we're not abandoning you. We'll visit every day."

As she held my hand, I could feel it shaking. Her composed expression was just a mask, barely concealing the torrent of tears she struggled to hold back. Words to comfort her escaped me. All I knew was, there was nothing I could do to change the situation.

The sound of three gentle knocks interrupted our conversation. The nurse entered the room at a pace full of care and consideration.

"Hello?" She asked.

In response, my mother quickly put on a broad smile, masking her concerns as if nothing was bothering her.

"Hi! Please come in."

"I have come with some friends." The nurse said.

That moment etched itself into my memory, one of those instances that you never forget, whether it's a fond recollection or a nightmarish one.

"Hello!"

The instant they entered; I felt an immediate sense of unease. Their faces were covered in bright white paint, each sporting a glaring red nose. And to make matters more overwhelming, there wasn't just one, but two clowns.

The first clown captured my attention. Her face was painted with tears and a sorrowful smile, yet she maintained a constant smile.

"Hello, Sammy!" She pulled a letter from her front pocket and gave it to me. "We've brought a gift for you. I hope you like it."

The clowns started inflating balloons, twisting them into various animal shapes. The second clown wore a large flower on her chest, which squirted water at anyone who dared to come too close. On top of the collar of her costume, I noticed a pin of an angel, reminiscent of one you might see on The Godmother, but with a small distinction: the angel depicted was playing a harp, not a trumpet.