When a workaholic businessman receives tragic health news, he meets a young youngster in the hospital who transforms his perspective on life. Their link develops through surprising friendship and tiny acts of kindness, teaching him what is actually important—until a terrible twist changes everything.
Andrew, 50, sat at his desk, sorting through files and scheduling meetings with his partners.
He did not hear Michael, his assistant, enter the room. Michael stood there waiting.
No response. Andrew continued working, his concentration intense. Michael tried again. “Mr. Smith.” Still no response. He said his name three more times.
Finally, Andrew banged his palms on the desk and said, “What?”
Michael did not flinch. “You asked me to tell you if your ex-wife called.”
Michael held a notepad. “She left a message. I should warn you—it’s a direct quote. Her words, not mine.” He read from the note. “‘You pompous jerk, I will never forgive you for wasting so many years of my life. If you don’t give me back my painting, I’ll smash your car.’ That’s the message.”
For illustrative purposes only.
“Stop taking her calls,” Andrew said. Then he paused. “Actually, tell her I threw that painting in the trash!”
Andrew grabbed a pen and threw it at the wall. Michael ducked slightly, gave a modest nod, and exited the room.
Moments later, Andrew’s phone rang. He grimaced and picked it up.
“This is the hospital. Your test results are ready. The doctor wants to see you.”
Andrew sighed heavily. “Fine. I’ll come in.” He hung up, shaking his head.
Andrew sat stiffly in a chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. When the door opened, the doctor stepped inside, his expression serious. Andrew scowled, sensing the terrible news.
The doctor sat across from him and spoke in a calm, measured tone, using phrases Andrew did not understand.
Then came the word – ᴄᴀɴᴄᴇʀ. “We need to act fast,” the doctor stated.
For illustrative purposes only.
Andrew leaned forward. “What are my chances of getting better?”
“I can’t promise anything,” the doctor said. “Starting treatment right away is critical.”
As Andrew walked through the hospital’s pediatric side, he spotted a youngster around eight years old tossing a ball back and forth with a nurse.
The sound of their laughter boomed down the corridor. The ball rolled across the floor, stopping near Andrew’s feet.
“Excuse me, sir!” The boy cried out, beaming. “Can you please throw the ball back?”
Andrew picked up the ball, his expression tight. Without saying anything, he flung it down the corridor, away from the boy and the nurse, before turning and walking away.
For illustrative purposes only.
Andrew had been in the hospital for days, which seemed like weeks. He tried to continue working, setting up his laptop and getting through meetings.
However, the treatment was draining. Every session made him weaker. The nausea was continuous, making sleep practically difficult.
During another lengthy chemotherapy treatment, Andrew leaned back, his eyes half-closed.
Suddenly, a little voice cut through his fog. He opened his eyes and saw a boy standing in front of him. Andrew was startled and flinched. The boy giggled. It was the same boy from the corridor.
“I’ve been walking around the hospital looking for someone to play with. It’s boring here.”
Andrew looked at him, annoyed. “What’s your name?” he inquired.
“Tommy,” the child said with a big smile.
For illustrative purposes only.
Tommy did not move. Instead, he dug into his pocket and took out a small peppermint candy. He held it out to Andrew. “This helps with nausea. You should try it.”
“You’re really grumpy!” Tommy said, laughing. “I’m going to call you Mr. Grouch. Are you mad because you’re scared of needles?” He pointed at the IV attached to Andrew’s arm.
Tommy nodded. “That’s fine. I was scared at first too, but then I stopped. My mom says I’m a superhero. Do you have a superpower?”
“No,” Andrew said, his voice flat.
“That’s because you’re too sad,” Tommy replied, his tone serious now.
With a sigh, he picked it up, unwrapped it, and placed it in his mouth. To his astonishment, the intense sweetness alleviated the nausea.
That evening, as Andrew was staring at his laptop, a nurse knocked on his door.
She carried a tiny paper bag. “This is for you,” she explained, setting it on the table. “Tommy sent it.”
The next morning, he resolved to go find Tommy.
As he neared Tommy’s room, he noticed a woman resting against the wall, her shoulders shaking. She cried.
“Tommy gave me some candies yesterday,” Andrew said.
The woman’s lips twisted into a little smile. “Oh, so you’re Mr. Grouch,” she said.
Andrew nodded again, wondering what to say. Before he could react, the door sprang open. Tommy dashed out, his face lighting up as he saw Andrew.
For illustrative purposes only.
Tommy remained a continuous presence in Andrew’s life after that day.
The child would walk into Andrew’s room with a wide grin and boundless enthusiasm. Andrew was at first annoyed, but Tommy’s perseverance eventually wore him down.
Sometimes they “borrowed” wheelchairs and raced down the corridors, laughing so hard that their sides hurt.
Tommy told to me one afternoon that Sara was crying again. “She’s worried about money,” Tommy remarked. “We might lose our house.”
Andrew gently handed Tommy an envelope containing cash. “Tell her it’s from a magician,” he instructed.
Weeks have passed. Andrew’s therapies were effective, and the doctor eventually informed him that he was can:cer-free.
Andrew was ecstatic and raced to tell Tommy. But when he came, Tommy was comatose, with Sara sitting by him, tears running down her cheeks.
Sara mustered a tiny grin despite her tears. “Don’t be. He said you saved him. These months, you gave him laughter and hope. You made him forget about being sick.”
Andrew shook his head slowly. “No. He’s the one who saved me.”
For illustrative purposes only.
That night, Tommy died quietly, surrounded by his mother’s love and the memories he had created.
Determined, he established a foundation in Tommy’s honor to assist sick children, guaranteeing that his generosity would go on.
