The only thing I have left in this life is my five-year-old son. I’ve been raising him alone since the day he was born. I never complained, I handled every hardship, until the diagnosis came — the one that turned our lives upside down: cancer.
The illness cost me my job, the debts grew, money was tight, and the hardest part was that I had to take my son with me to chemotherapy.
After each procedure, nausea overwhelmed me, and the weakness was so strong that I could barely stay on my feet — but we had no other choice.
We were going home by subway. I pulled my hood down as far as I could so no one would see my bald head, and my son sat next to me, holding my hand and whispering softly:
— Mom, just a little more. We’re almost home.
And on one of those days, an elderly woman in her seventies entered the carriage. She looked around, saw that there were no empty seats, and for some reason she immediately fixed her eyes on me, even though there were plenty of healthy men nearby, calmly sitting and staring at their phones.
— What, have they completely lost their conscience? — she said loudly. — Young people nowadays have no shame. Is it that hard to give up a seat to a senior?
I felt my hands shaking, but I had no strength left to explain. Any other day I would have stood up. But today I could barely sit.
— There are men over there, maybe they… — I tried to say quietly.
— Look at her, she’s even talking back! — the woman snapped. — Sitting here like a lady, hiding behind her child, thinking she can get away with anything!
She insulted me, yelled at me, and I just sat there silently, listening.
The carriage went quiet. People watched, but no one said a word. I felt small, humiliated, helpless. I swallowed hard so I wouldn’t cry — not in front of my son.
And then something happened that I never expected — not even in my thoughts. Continued in the first comment
My little, calm, gentle son suddenly turned toward the woman, angrier than I had ever seen him, and in one quick motion he pulled my hood off.
— My mom is sick! — he shouted. — Don’t you see? She can barely stand! Grandma, you’re very mean!
The old woman froze as if the words had struck her. She couldn’t say a thing. The people in the carriage, seeing my bald head, seemed to wake up: one man stood up, then another, then a third.
Within seconds, the entire row was empty. Everyone stood, but no one sat down — as if it were a small, quiet protest against cruelty, against injustice, against judging without knowing.
The woman lowered her eyes, muttered something under her breath, and turned away. And I just hugged my son.
He was my only protector.