The illness took my job, the debts grew, money wasn’t enough, and the hardest part was that I had to take my son with me to chemotherapy.

After each session I was overwhelmed by nausea, the weakness was so severe that I could barely stand, but we had no other choice.

We took the subway home, I pulled my hood low so no one would see my shaved head, and my son sat next to me, holding my hand and whispering softly:

— Mom, just a little more. We’re almost home.

And on one of those days, an elderly woman of about seventy entered the train car.