He wears that old play lab coat like it’s sacred. The stethoscope, the too-long sleeves, the cardboard “brain hat” he insisted on making himself—it’s all part of the look. He takes it seriously.
“Dr. Seamus S. Burke,” it says on the pocket. He made me write it with permanent marker.
Every morning, he walks around the house diagnosing things—his teddy bear has “spaghetti bones,” my left foot is apparently “too tired to work today,” and the dog? “Borderline allergic to Thursdays.”
It’s adorable.
But today was different. Today, he came into the kitchen with that serious little face of his, his brows furrowed like he was working on a particularly tricky case. His usual energetic, playful demeanor was replaced with something I’d never seen before—an intensity that seemed far beyond his five years.
“Mom,” he said, his voice unusually quiet, “I want to save someone first.”
I looked over at him, still holding his cardboard “brain hat” in place, and chuckled softly. He was always full of these big ideas. But something about the way he said it made me pause. “Who do you want to save, buddy?”
He hesitated for a moment, glancing around the room as if making sure no one else was listening. Then he took a deep breath, as though he was about to share a secret.
“Grandpa,” he said simply.
My heart skipped a beat. I wasn’t expecting that.
His grandpa—my dad—had been battling cancer for the past few months. It had been tough. Really tough. My dad had always been a big, strong man, but now he was frail, tired, and often in pain. It was hard to watch him like this, and even harder to explain to Seamus, who couldn’t fully grasp the weight of what was happening.
“Seamus, you know Grandpa is very sick, right?” I asked, kneeling down to his level. His big, brown eyes met mine, full of earnestness.
He nodded, as if he understood perfectly. “Yeah, but I can fix him, Mom. I’m a doctor. I can do it.”
I tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to well up. How could I explain to him that sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we can’t fix everything? How could I crush that innocent, hopeful belief that he could make everything right?
“You’re such a sweet boy, Seamus,” I said softly, reaching out to ruffle his messy hair. “But Grandpa’s doctors are already doing everything they can to help him.”
He shook his head, his little face set with determination. “But I can help, Mom. I’m Dr. Seamus. I have my own stethoscope.”
My heart ached. How could I explain this to him? How could I teach him that sometimes, no matter how much we want to save someone, we just can’t?
“I know you want to help, sweetheart,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “but even doctors like me can’t always save everyone. Sometimes, we just have to be there for the people we love, in any way we can.”
Seamus looked up at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But I want to do more than that. I want to fix Grandpa.”
His innocence hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t stand the thought of telling him the truth—that there were some things we simply couldn’t fix. I didn’t want to take away his hope. I didn’t want him to lose that spark of belief in himself, the same spark that had him walking around with a stethoscope every day like it was the most important thing in the world.
“I know you do, buddy. And sometimes, the best thing we can do is just be there, hold their hand, and tell them we love them,” I explained softly.
Seamus didn’t seem convinced. He stared at the ground for a moment, deep in thought. Then, just as quickly as he had spoken, he ran off to his room, probably to go back to his “doctoring,” oblivious to the weight of the conversation we’d just had.
Later that evening, after Seamus was tucked into bed, I sat in the living room, my thoughts swirling. I’d spent so much time trying to shield him from the hard truths of life. But in a way, he had just taught me something. He had shown me a side of hope I had forgotten about. He didn’t see limitations. He didn’t see boundaries. He just saw a problem and thought, “I can fix this.”
I couldn’t help but admire that.
The next day, I called my dad to check on him. His voice was weaker than usual, and I could hear the exhaustion in every word. But when I mentioned Seamus and his “doctor dreams,” I could hear a smile in his voice.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” my dad said, his tone light. “I remember when you were his age, always running around pretending to be something you weren’t. You thought you could do it all, just like him.”
“I don’t know what to tell him, Dad,” I admitted. “He wants to save you. He thinks he can fix everything with that stethoscope of his.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line before my dad spoke again, his voice thick with emotion. “Well, you tell him something for me. Tell him that no matter what happens, I’m proud of him. That he’s already done more for me than he knows. He’s given me hope. And sometimes, that’s all we really need.”
Tears filled my eyes as I listened to my dad’s words. Hope. That was something I could give Seamus, too. Maybe I couldn’t promise him that I’d always be able to fix things, but I could promise him that I’d always be there to support him, just like he wanted to support his grandpa.
The next day, Seamus came to my dad’s house to visit, wearing his play lab coat and carrying his stethoscope like it was the most important thing in the world. He spent the afternoon “checking on” Grandpa, telling him that he had to keep his heart strong, that he had to drink lots of water, and that he was going to be just fine. My dad, weak as he was, smiled and played along, clearly touched by the little doctor’s attention.
And you know what? It was one of the most beautiful moments I had seen in a long time. In that moment, Seamus did what no grown-up could do—he gave my dad a glimpse of hope, something to hold on to when everything else seemed uncertain.
Weeks passed, and while my dad’s condition didn’t improve, something changed. It wasn’t a miracle, but it was enough. My dad seemed a little lighter, a little brighter. And I couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with the little boy who believed that he could fix the world, one stethoscope at a time.
It was only a few months later that my dad passed away peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by family. But as he went, I could see the peace on his face. I could see that he was ready, that he had made peace with everything.
At the funeral, as I stood beside my family, I felt Seamus’ small hand slip into mine. He looked up at me with those big brown eyes, the same eyes that had once asked to fix Grandpa. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. I could see it in his eyes—he knew Grandpa was in a better place now.
And just like that, I realized something that I had never understood before. Sometimes, we can’t fix the people we love. But we can give them hope. And that, in itself, can be enough.
So if you’re ever in a tough spot, whether it’s with family, work, or life in general, remember this: hope is sometimes the greatest thing you can offer. You may not be able to fix everything, but you can always be there, holding their hand, offering that little spark of belief that things will get better. Because sometimes, that’s all we really need.
If you’ve found comfort in this story, share it with someone who needs a little hope today.
