Ron exhaled.
“Good.”
He paused.
“And if you need somebody to sit with you afterward, I'll come over.”
I wiped my eyes.
“Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.”
Then he added, “Also, your coffee tastes like burnt motor oil, so I'm bringing my own.”
I laughed.
And somehow, that small laugh was enough to help me get through the night.
The following months were difficult.
Tucker continued receiving care under the guidance of his oncology team.
Some days brought encouraging news.
Others brought complications, fatigue, and new questions.
There were periods when his appetite returned and he could play for hours, followed by days when he needed rest and quiet.
We stopped measuring progress by whether every day felt better than the one before.
Instead, we learned to appreciate improvements while accepting that recovery, when possible, could be uneven and uncertain.
The nonprofit continued supporting Angie with practical expenses.
The Iron Ghosts kept their commitments.
Ron repaired her car when a warning light appeared.
Another member helped arrange groceries during a particularly demanding week.
A retired teacher from our volunteer group brought books and simple activities Tucker could enjoy when he felt well enough.
And I kept visiting.
Sometimes I brought gifts.
More often, I simply brought myself.
One Saturday, Tucker asked me why I always wore the same kind of leather vest.
I explained that it represented my motorcycle club.
He looked toward his own tiny vest.
“Does that mean mine is real?”
I smiled.
“As real as mine.”
He looked proud.
Then he asked, “Does everybody on the team have to be tough?”
I considered that.
“What do you think tough means?”
He frowned.
“Not crying.”
I shook my head.
“No, buddy.”
He looked surprised.
I continued.
“Some of the toughest people I've ever known cried plenty.”
“Like Ron?”
I laughed.
“Especially Ron.”
Tucker smiled.
Then he looked down at Captain Chomp.
“What if I'm scared?”
I leaned closer.
“Then you're scared. That doesn't make you less brave.”
He considered the answer.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, “I'm scared a lot.”
I took his hand.
“Me too.”
He looked up.
“Even now?”
“Even now.”
His expression softened.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
We sat quietly until he grew tired.
That afternoon, as I walked toward the hospital elevator, I realized how much my understanding of strength had changed.
When I was younger, I thought strength meant never admitting weakness.
I believed the strongest man in a room was the one nobody dared challenge.
Now I knew better.