I never imagined I'd be the one writing words like these about my own mum.

A few weeks ago my mother, Fabiane (Binha to everyone who loves her), was told she has a rare, aggressive glioblastoma. One scan, one sentence from a doctor, and the whole world I knew collapsed inward. The kitchen went quiet. My little sibling asked questions I didn't know how to answer. Sleep stopped coming.

My mum is a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister. She's the one who always shows up. At the hospital bed, at the school gate, on the other end of the phone at 2am. She's the person who makes everyone else's pain smaller by carrying a piece of it herself. Watching her be the one in the hospital gown now, with that brave little smile she still tries to give me, has broken something in me.

My dad is trying to be strong for us. My grandma hasn't stopped praying. My younger sibling is too young to understand the word "glioblastoma", they just want mum to come home and stay home. We hold each other, and we hold our breath between every appointment.

The treatment ahead is brutal and fast-moving. Specialist consultations, scans, chemotherapy, hospital trips hours from home, weeks of recovery, in-home care for the days she's too weak to stand. My family has had to step back from work to be at her side, and the bills (rent, groceries, fuel, medication) don't pause for cancer.

That's why I'm here, asking with everything I have. We can't take the diagnosis away. But together, we can take the fear of money away, so my mum can focus on fighting, and my dad and I can focus on holding her hand.

If you can give anything, $20, $40, even a share of this page, please do. Every euro is one less night my family lies awake doing math instead of resting. Every prayer, every message, every kind thought reaches her. I read them out loud at her bedside.

Thank you for not scrolling past her. Thank you for loving a stranger today. From the bottom of my broken, hopeful heart.

Binha's son. 🤍