Thanksgiving had ended hours ago everywhere else, but inside the children’s cancer ward, the holiday didn’t feel real at all. The halls were dim, silent, and heavy with the kind of fear only sick children and exhausted parents understand.

Six-year-old Milo lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling while machines beeped softly beside him. Nights were always the hardest — every shadow felt threatening, every sound too loud. His mother had finally collapsed on the small cot in the corner, still wearing the same sweater she’d put on at dawn. She hadn’t eaten. She hadn’t slept. She was done.

Nurse Caroline should’ve been home already. Her shift ended before sunset, and her family had saved her a plate of turkey and her dad’s famous stuffing. But the unit was short-staffed, and by the time she was free, dinner was already long underway.

She intended to do one last quick check.

Then Milo whispered, voice trembling, “Can you stay? It’s too dark tonight.”

Caroline looked at him — at his shaking hands, at his mother finally resting — and pulled a chair up to his bedside. She held his hand, told him stories, talked about the parade she missed, and made him giggle until his eyes finally closed.

Hours later, Milo’s mom woke to see her son sleeping peacefully… and Nurse Caroline slumped in the chair beside him, still holding his hand.

She never made it home for Thanksgiving.

But in that quiet hospital room, her sacrifice became the purest form of gratitude.