"If anything goes wrong, I'll lose my son and husband in one go... I've never been this terrified!"

At night, when he thinks I’m asleep, I hear his soft sobs. He hides his pain because he doesn’t want me to worry, but I know. I always know. I lie awake, listening, helpless, wishing I could take it all away. My son is only seven. For the past five years, he has battled X-linked Agammaglobulinemia, a cruel disease that weakens his immune system. The hospital visits, the IV lines, the injections—it has become routine. When I braid his hair before an appointment, he giggles and says, "Ammi, make it perfect, so the doctors think I’m strong." But I know the truth. Strength is something he was never given a choice about.

Despite everything, he clings to childhood. He plays mobile games, watches cartoons, and laughs in moments when his body allows it. But his life is different. Every month, without fail, fever overtakes him. When we had to move to Bangalore for treatment, he left behind more than just a school—he lost his friends, his routine, his normalcy. Yet, he never asks when he can go back. Maybe he already knows there’s no answer.

My husband once owned a kirana shop in our hometown, earning enough for a comfortable life. Now, he drives a cab in Bangalore, working long hours, making barely Rs. 300 a day, less than what we need to survive. I stay home to care for our son and his baby brother. No savings. No safety net. Just a desperate fight to keep going.

The sooner, the better. The cost? At least 40 lakhs. We have already spent Rs. 10 lakh on treatment, borrowing from wherever we could. Mobile loans, kind relatives, anything to make ends meet. But now, we have nothing left.

The doctors explained it to him, and he nodded, as if he understood. But I don’t think he truly does. I do. I know what it means. I am already terrified for my son, and now, I have to fear for my husband, too. What if something goes wrong? What if I lose them both? But what choice do we have? Our boy still sleeps with his tiny fingers curled around mine, just like he did as a newborn, as if afraid to let go. I cannot let him go. I won’t.

Our son tells me, "Once I get my transplant, I’ll go back to school. I won’t need injections anymore." He believes in a future where he can be like other children. And as his mother, I want nothing more than to make that future real. But we need your help. Please, if you can, donate. Help us save him. Help him live the childhood he deserves.