admin
“Mommy, look at me!” he says softly, his small voice filled with both hope and longing.
Across the hospital room, his mother lies still. Machines hum quietly beside her bed. Her eyes are open, but her body no longer responds the way it once did. After going into cardiac arrest, she was left without oxygen for several minutes—minutes that changed everything.
She can’t walk, she can’t speak… but to her little boy, she’s still Mommy.
Every day, he talks to her as if she can hear every word. And maybe, deep inside, she can.
“Hopefully your results come back, Mommy,” he says one afternoon, gently touching her hand. “Hopefully, you don’t have seizures anymore. And hopefully you get better, right? Right, Mommy?”
And then it happens—she blinks once.
His eyes light up instantly. “She did? What does that mean again?”
“It means yes,” someone replies.
A smile spreads across his face. It’s such a simple gesture, but to him, it’s everything—a sign that she’s still there, still fighting.
He can’t wait to tell her about the small things in his life.
“Mommy, guess what? I lost my tooth! And I’m going to put it under my pillow so I can get money!”
Again, she blinks once.
“See, Mommy? She did it again!” he says proudly. “Excellent, Bubba,” a voice responds in the background.
He prays for her every night. “I prayed,” he tells her, his voice trembling slightly. “I know you did, honey,” someone answers softly. “What did Mommy say?” he asks.
“She said she is.”
“She is?” he repeats, smiling. “Aww…”
He talks to her as if she’s answering every question, as if their bond is unbreakable—and perhaps it truly is.
“I miss you so much,” he says one day, his little voice barely above a whisper. “Miss me too?”
Someone beside him asks, “What did Mommy say?”
“She said she missed me a lot.”
He smiles again, “I miss you more than you miss me.”
Day after day, he finds new ways to connect with her. He tells her about school, about his games, about how everyone is praying for her.
“I made a home run for you,” he beams.
She blinks again. Maybe it’s a coincidence, perhaps not—but in that small gesture, there’s life. There’s love. There’s hope.
Sometimes, he even manages to make her laugh. “Mommy, what’s so funny?” he giggles.
“You just got her laughing,” someone tells him.
“I did? How?” he asks, puzzled but happy.
He doesn’t see the hospital bed or the tubes, or the machines. He sees his mother—the woman who once held his hand, who kissed him goodnight, who now fights silently to come back to him.
And though her voice is gone, their conversation never stops. Through every blink, every faint smile, every tiny reaction, she tells him she’s still there. Still listening. Still loving him.
Because a mother’s love doesn’t end when words do.
And a child’s faith… can move mountains.
