“Why?”
Her mother looked around the room, then at Tobin.
“Because I was scared and tired. I felt useless, and I blamed someone who was helping you.”
Tobin lowered his eyes.
Eileen walked over and hugged him.
He stiffened in surprise, then slowly put his arms around her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I haven’t heard her laugh like that in months.”
The room became quiet until Coach Vance cleared his throat.
“For the record, I was told this would make me look younger.”
Everyone laughed, including Eileen.
Later, I learned Tobin had been arranging the surprise for nearly two weeks.
He had spoken to his teammates after practice and contacted teachers and hospital staff. He had also asked the school to allow hats in class while their hair grew back.
He did not want praise. Linnea had told him she was afraid people would look at her when she returned to school. He wanted to make sure she would not be the only person who looked different.
That evening, Eileen and I sat in the hospital cafeteria.
“I’m ashamed of how I felt,” she said.
“You were terrified.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” I replied. “But it means you need kindness too.”
She looked down at her coffee.
“I thought being her mother would make me strong. Instead, I became jealous of anyone who could make her smile.”
I moved closer, and she rested her head on my shoulder.
For the first time since Linnea’s diagnosis, Eileen cried without trying to hide it.
Six weeks later, the doctors said Linnea’s treatment was working.
She still faced more hospital visits and difficult days, but there was finally a reason to hope.
