Two years ago, our daughter Lily was diagnosed with leukemia. She was three years old.
The chemotherapy took her hair within weeks. Beautiful brown curls, gone. She cried every time she looked in the mirror.
Leo, who was only three himself at the time, watched his little sister cry. And one night, he climbed into her hospital bed, put his hand on her bald head, and said, “Don’t worry,
Lily. I’ll grow my hair for both of us.”
It was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.
From that day forward, Leo refused haircuts. “I’m growing it for Lily,” he’d say whenever anyone asked.
And we let him. Because it gave him something to do while his sister fought for her life. Because it made Lily smile when nothing else did. Because in a world where we had no control, this was one small thing our son could control.
