The night was quiet, yet heavy with sorrow. Rain tapped against the rusty windowpanes of their one-bedroom home, as if mourning with the family inside. Daniel, now six years old, lay curled on the thin mattress beside his mother, his body frail and trembling from the lingering effects of another pain crisis. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, as Mercy stroked his head gently, tears silently falling from her eyes.
In the far corner of the room, Faith knelt beside a worn-out chair that once belonged to her grandfather. Her palms were clasped tightly together, her head bowed low in prayer. Her voice was barely a whisper, but her words carried the weight of desperation far beyond her young years.
"God, please… please heal my brother," she whispered. "I'm not asking for anything else. Just take away his pain. He's too little… he doesn't deserve this."
Faith was now eleven. Though still a child, the burdens on her small shoulders were far heavier than most adults could bear. Ever since she understood what sickle cell anemia meant—after watching her brother scream through his first crisis—she had made it her mission to be his protector, his helper, and sometimes, even his second mother.
Daniel whimpered in his sleep, his little fists clenching as if wrestling the pain in a dream. Mercy leaned down and kissed his forehead, her lips trembling.
"He's burning up again," Mercy said in a hoarse voice. "I wish we could afford to take him to the hospital."
Faith stood up slowly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She walked over to the corner where a plastic bowl held the last remnants of a few herbs their neighbor had given them.
"I'll try soaking a cloth again," she said softly, dipping it in the lukewarm water. "Maybe it'll help."
Mercy watched her daughter work with silent pride and guilt. Faith was too young to be carrying such burdens. She should be laughing, playing, learning… not mixing herbs and praying into the night.
A loud slam echoed from the front door. David was home.
He stumbled into the room, the unmistakable stench of alcohol clinging to him like smoke. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his eyes were bloodshot. Without a word, he glared at the scene before him—his wife tending to the sick child, and his eldest daughter standing with a damp cloth in hand.
"You're still crying over that boy?" David spat, his voice thick with anger. "What good is all this praying and crying doing, eh? Is God going to come down and pay his hospital bills?"
Mercy didn't respond. She turned away from him, focusing on Daniel's sweat-covered face. Faith stood protectively in front of her little brother.
"Daddy, please…" she said, her voice firm yet respectful. "He's not feeling well tonight. Can we just be quiet?"
David sneered. "Quiet? You think you can talk to me like that? You think you're the head of this house now?"
He raised his hand, and Mercy stood up quickly, placing herself between Faith and David.
"Please, David," she pleaded, "not tonight. Let's not do this tonight."
His hand fell, but not in a slap. He pointed sharply at Daniel.
"That child is a curse. Since the day he was born, everything I built started crumbling. We were rich before him. Now look at us—living like rats!"
Mercy's heart shattered again, not for the first time. She wanted to scream, to remind him that they chose to live carelessly, that they had no savings, no plans. But what would be the point?
David turned and stormed into the other room—barely more than a partitioned space—muttering curses under his breath.
Faith looked up at her mother. "Is it true? Is Daniel really the reason everything changed?"
Mercy knelt down, holding her daughter close. "No, baby. Daniel is not a curse. He's our blessing… just a fragile one. And people don't know how to handle fragile things—they either break them or blame them."
Faith nodded slowly. "Then I'll keep praying until they see what I see in him."
---
The next morning, the family woke up to the sound of heavy coughing. Daniel was burning with fever again, and this time, he was vomiting blood. Mercy knew it was serious. She had seen this before with another child in their neighborhood who didn't make it.
She wrapped Daniel in a faded blanket and looked at Faith.
"Go and call Aunty Amaka. Tell her it's urgent. Maybe she can lend us some money for the hospital."
Faith didn't wait. She slipped into her old sandals and took off running, her feet pounding the dusty ground. The sun was barely rising, casting orange light across the sky, but she didn't stop. She reached Aunty Amaka's compound and banged on the gate.
After a few minutes, a sleepy-eyed woman in her late fifties opened the door.
"Faith? What's the matter?"
"It's Daniel, ma. He's very sick. Please… can you help us? Just something—anything to take him to the hospital."
Aunty Amaka sighed, her face falling. "I wish I could, my dear. Things are tight for me this month. I don't have any spare cash."
Faith's heart sank. "Please… he might die."
The woman hesitated, then said, "I'll come and see him later. Maybe I can help find some herbs again."
Faith knew herbs wouldn't be enough this time. But she nodded politely and thanked her before running home.
When she returned, Daniel had fainted. Mercy was crying, holding him tightly, whispering his name.
Faith sat down beside them and began to pray again.
---
Later that night, Mercy walked into Faith's corner of the room and found her writing something in a little book.
"What are you writing, sweetheart?" she asked softly.
"My prayer," Faith said. "Every night, I write it down. I think if God sees it in writing, maybe He'll take it more seriously."
Mercy smiled sadly. "Let me read it?"
Faith nodded and handed her the page. It read:
> "Dear God,
Please don't take Daniel away. He's only six. I know he gets sick a lot, and sometimes it's really scary. But I love him, and I promise to take care of him forever if you let him stay. I'll be a good sister, a good daughter, and even a nurse if I have to. Just please don't let him die.
—Faith"
Mercy folded the paper carefully and hugged her daughter tightly.
"You're the strongest girl I know, Faith. Thank you… for being his angel."
That night, Daniel slept peacefully for the first time in weeks. And though the future remained uncertain, the power of a sister's prayer kept hope alive.