Author's Note: This story is based on both a dream and a role-play. The dream was had by my sister-from-another-mister, XMountaindewAddictX. The role-play was (obviously) between the two of us. In the role-play, she played the parts of Boris and Rosie, and I played the parts of Doris and Caillou.

This is a serious "Caillou" story. There are many stories under this category that are dubbed as "troll fics", so if you're looking for a hate story, this isn't one of them.

In terms of the issues handled in this story: I know the speculation of Caillou having cancer is just that – a speculation. I know that there are certain groups with PBS that debunk this idea whenever it comes their way. I am fully aware that Caillou is more than likely not a cancer patient. However, for the sake of this story and for the sake of my other-mister-sister (who likes the idea of Caillou having cancer), he will be a cancer sufferer in this story. So, please, for the sake of my sanity, don't leave reviews raging about the topic!

Also, this story is a little darker and does contain character death; that being said, I don't recommend this for the target audience of the show. This story is more for teen and early adult readers.

Now, at the risk of sounding like every PBS program opening – thank you.

"If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them?

Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?"

― Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes

Emergency

A single phone call had begun the spiral of events that led to their separation; the phone call that confirmed what had plagued their nightmares for a little over a year. But, it wasn't just the phone call that would unwind the marriage of Doris and Boris. It was a combination of things, a dangerous cocktail of life.

It started a week after the phone call, during one of Caillou's checkups. Boris had been downstairs with their daughter, holding her tiny hand as they browsed the gift shop. His eyes weren't searching for anything in particular, but his daughter's shrill laughter and pointing made them find something.

"Caillou! Caillou!" Rosie shouted in a roar of laughter as she pointed toward a pinwheel with a dinosaur on each blade.

"What's that, Rosie?" Boris absentmindedly asked before noticing the pinwheel. He chuckled to himself as Rosie waved the pinwheel in her pudgy hands, and he picked her up from the ground to carry her. "I think you're right, Rosie!" He agreed as he poked his daughter's nose. "I'll bet Caillou would feel a lot better with a nice pinwheel like that."

"Rosie help!" The girl gleefully cheered and clapped her hands, giving the pinwheel to the man behind the counter.

"We'll take this, please," Boris told the cashier, smiling as he fished his wallet from his back pocket. He set Rosie back on her feet before returning to counting the money in his wallet. A subtle grimace stretched his lips as the money was nowhere near the amount it had once been; the frequent checkups were piling up, and their regular bills had seemed to double since they'd begun.

"Tell ya what," the chubby man with the pinched red cheeks said with a warm smile, handing the pinwheel back to the other. "You just take this, my treat."

"Oh, I couldn't possi-,"

"Aw, go on, sonny. I heard yer little girl over there gigglin' about buyin' her brother a present," he explained. "That's enough payment for me."

Boris froze for a moment with uncertainty. "A-are you sure?"

"O'Course I'm sure! And I hope that boy of yers gets ta feelin' better real soon."

"Well, gee, thanks, err," Boris' eyes flicked to the man's name tag, "Sam…?"

"Caillou!" Rosie squealed once more before violently tugging on the leg of her father's jeans. She was hopping on the balls of her feet, pointing toward the gift shop entrance where her mother was walking hand-in-hand with her brother. "Caillou!"

"Oh, Caillou, you were such a big boy for taking your medicine so well!" The soft sound of their mother's voice droned in the distance. The softness continued into a sigh, which was much sadder than usual. "I wish Daddy and I had the money to get you something extra special for being such a good little patient."

Rosie, unable to restrain herself any longer, snatched the pinwheel from her father's hand and darted toward her brother. She didn't have time to notice the faint, dry streaks of tears on the boy's ghastly-pale face. She excitedly waved the pinwheel in front of his face, squealing, "Caillou, present! Present for Caillou!"

Caillou sniveled, his weak eyes gazing at his sister and then at the pinwheel. A feeble smile curled the boy's lips and his fingers wrapped around the pinwheel's stem. The smile expanded slightly when he noticed the dinosaurs splayed along each blade. "Wow!" He beamed, spinning the blades with his finger and giggling as they spun. "Thanks, Rosie!"

"Oh, Rosie, that's so… nice!" Doris chirped through a strained voice, forcing a smile for the sake of her children. "Um, Caillou, why don't you go show Rosie the nice fish tank the nurse showed us, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy," the youngster agreed, taking his sister's hand in his own. "C'mon, Rosie, they have fishies inside, just like at the aquarium. Except it's a lot smaller," he finished with a small laugh.

Doris sighed once again, this time in pity as she watched her children walking toward the tank across the room. She pushed the grim thoughts pecking at her mind away and pulled her husband aside, trying to speak quietly, yet sternly. "Boris, you know we need to save all the money we can. That pinwheel must have cost at least five dollars. We… we talked about this…?" Her voice had sounded more questioning, almost disbelieving.

"I know, hon," Boris replied, his voice also staying low. "But, Rosie was so excited about giving it to Caillou. She just wants him to feel better."

"We all do, Boris," the woman insisted with pleading eyes. "But, buying him things we can't afford isn't going to help." The frightening look of sympathy on her husband's face then caused her to slump, speaking in a long exhale, "just, please, don't let it happen again. Okay?"

"Scouts' honor; but this one was on the house," Boris retorted with a bittersweet chuckle as he noticed his children walking their way. He turned to Caillou, who reached out to him to be picked up, and lifted him from the ground. "Hey, sport! Mommy told me you were very brave today."

"Well, I did cry a little," Caillou bashfully answered, his attention still mostly on the pinwheel. He grinned softly, sickly at his father before the man placed Caillou back on his feet. He wobbled for a moment, his balance growing increasingly worse after each checkup; but he stabilized himself more quickly than after the treatments of chemotherapy.

Boris frowned at his son and then at his wife, his eyes speaking for him and telling every fear that reaped across his mind. However, the frown couldn't linger, regardless of how much it wanted to, for his daughter was now reaching up to him with stubby arms.

"Daddy sad?" She whined as she noticed the glower on his face. "Rosie make Daddy better," she continued once she was cradled in his arm. She slid her fingers into the corners of his mouth and turned them upward, creating a forced smile. "All better now!" She giggled with stars twinkling in her eyes, truly and innocently believing her actions had cured whatever had made her daddy so sad.

He gave a strained titter, "yes, Rosie, thank you. Daddy feels a lot better now." It was a lie, but the beaming smile on his little girl's freckled face was proof that she believed it, believed him. She was then passed to her mother, who noticed the storm underlying the calm, to be buckled into the safety-seat in the back of the family car. Boris mocked her actions on the opposite side of the seat, buckling Caillou into the other safety-seat; the frown returned as the man noticed his son instantly fall into a deep sleep. This time, his frown was hidden from his daughter, for she was also pulled into her own set of dreams.

He climbed into the drivers' seat, sighing in a huff as he slumped over the wheel. His fingers fumbled with the keys, seeming to have lost any strength to turn on the engine. Doris noticed her husband's distress and slid a supportive hand to his shoulder, though she felt so distant to him.

"Boris," she began lightly, then continued a pinch more firmly, "you know the doctor said it's best to try to explain these things to the kids. I know you were just trying to cheer her up, but we need to use this as an opportunity to prepare Rosie for when..." She caught herself, bit her tongue, then corrected herself, "if something should happen..."

"When."

She piped in confusion, "wha-what?"

"The word is 'when'," he stressed as a layer of hot tears glazed over his eyes, which diverted to the floorboard. "Doris, if you want to tell me not to lie to our children, you probably shouldn't make-believe with me either."

Her head had lowered, her own set of tears daubing at the ends of her lashes. She wanted to speak, but all words fell into an oblivion and her thoughts were soon consumed by that same static. Instead of speaking, of talking through the reality, they had a silent car ride home that was filled with fragile fantasies.

The next major strain to their marriage had come a few months after, when Leo had come over to play with Caillou.

Leo was staring in awe as Caillou spun the blades of the pinwheel, the dinosaurs riding the air like a merry-go-round. The freckled boy was grinning from one ear to the other, enthralled by the toy, and spoke loudly, "gee, Caillou, you sure are lucky! I wish I could have a nice toy like that."

"Rosie got it for me," Caillou explained proudly, flicking the blades whenever they began to slow.

"I wanna try!" Leo exclaimed, his hand reaching toward the toy, which Caillou quickly and sharply tugged to his chest.

"No, Leo! It's special! I don't want you to play with it."

Leo pouted and huffed, "but, that's not fair! You always get to play with my toys."

"But, this is my special toy; it makes me better," the other tried desperately to get his point across, clinging to the pinwheel and holding it out of Leo's grabby fingers. "I-if you take it, I'll be sick again!"

"Sick…?" Leo paused his grabbing. He leaned in close to Caillou's face, examining the area (which looked perfectly normal to him). "You don't look sick… Aw, I bet you're just faking because you don't want to share your new toy!"

"Am not!"

"Are, too!"

"Am not!"

"Boys! Boys!" Doris warned with a somewhat raised voice. She set the laundry basket she was carrying down beside the door and entered her son's bedroom, her hands placed authoritatively on her hips before her arms crossed over her chest. "Alright, you two, I don't want to hear anymore fighting… okay?"

Caillou was the first to respond, pouting and whining, "but, Mo-oo-ommy! Leo wants to play with my special pinwheel." He huffed angrily at that point, folding his arms over his chest and slumping into his pillow.

"Caillou won't share his toy; he said I can't play with it or he'll get sick!"

"I did not!"

"Yes, you did!"

Doris cleared her throat firmly; the boys instantly settled into a tension-tainted silence. It was at that moment that she noticed the pinwheel that her son was guarding, and she took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Leo. Her hand extended toward her son, her voice sweet as she asked, "Caillou, can Mommy see your pinwheel for a minute, please?"

"No!"

"Caillou…!"

The boy puffed and begrudgingly handed over the pinwheel, his lower lip jutting outward. A subtle mewl of a whine came from his chest, but his mother smiled thankfully at him.

"Thank you, Caillou," she said as she stood from the bed, moving over to a shelf where her son kept his most-beloved toys. She set the pinwheel onto the shelf and then turned to take her leave, grinning sternly at the children. "Now, no more fighting, okay? You can play with the pinwheel when you both can learn to share it."

"No! Mommy! I'll get si-iii-ick!" Caillou panicked, sweat beading down his scalp and tears welling in his eyes, which were wide with fear and focused on the pinwheel. "This is all your fault, Leo!"

"My fault? You were the one who wouldn't share!"

"Ahem!" Doris coughed loudly in gesture, peeking around the doorway once again and watching the boys once again settle into a bitter rift of hush. She smiled as they did this and sighed, "that's better." She bent at the waist and picked up the basket of laundry, finally proceeding down the stairs and out of earshot.

"I don't want to play with you any-yy-mor-or-re!" Caillou cried, tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks and splashing onto the blanket, which he kicked in a tantrum. "Yo-you made me si-si-si-ii-ck again!"

Leo suddenly felt bad as he watched his friend descend into a riot, trying fruitlessly to think of a way to fix whatever had broken. He tried to place a hand on Caillou's shoulder, but the other pulled roughly away and retreated into himself by clinging his knees to his chest.

Caillou continued his bawling, shouting through the sobs, "you're not my friend anymo-or-ore!"

Caillou's father was the next to be alerted to the shouting. He rushed toward the bedroom, instantly shushing the boy when he got to the doorway, "Caillou, shh, you'll wake up Rosie."

"Bu-But! But, Leo said… and he… he… and Mommy took my… my..."

Boris took immediate action, moving toward the bed and cradling his son, swiping a few tears from the boy's face. "Caillou, calm down and tell me what happened. I can't understand you." The man's eyes flicked to his son's friend, whose eyes were plastered to the floor with guilt, and then upward at the shelf; a ray of sunlight shimmered against the foil-coated blades of the pinwheel. "Now, who put that up there?" He questioned rhetorically in a whisper to himself.

Leo, too, began to cry, sniveling as he explained, "I'm sorry I got Caillou's pinwheel taken away. I… I don't want Caillou to be sick, really..."

"Mommy put my pi-inwheel on the shelf because I didn't want Leo to play with it."

"Well," Boris contemplated, partially standing by the woman's decision, but also wanting to understand why it had been such a dramatic experience. "You do know you're supposed to share your toys, Caillou."

"I wasn't gonna break it or nothin'," Leo whispered, "honest."

"I know, Leo. It's okay."

"No! No, it's not okay!" Caillou bellowed, pounding his fists into the mattress. "I'm sick again! Leo took my special pinwheel that made me all better, and now I'm sick again!"

"Is that what's bothering you?" Boris asked with a feeble smile at how innocent the child's mind worked. He laughed gently, though his heart was splintered with tears, and he walked to the shelf and took the pinwheel back to his son. "Here you go, sport," he spoke happily, grazing a hand over his son's scalp, a frown tugging at his heart despite the lie stretched on his face. "There? All better now?"

Caillou nodded with a final whimper, giggling when Leo blew at the blades and caused them to spin faster than they'd ever spun. "Wow! Do it again, Leo!"

When Boris left the room, he could overhear the two boys roaring with laughter and dinosaur roars. He beamed, wishing he could somehow capture the moment and make it linger forever, wishing the pinwheel was a miracle that would cure his son one spin at a time. He bumped into his wife as she was heading back upstairs, and she gave him a smile when she heard the laughter from her son's room.

"Well," she laughed, placing a kiss to her husband's cheek as he took the empty laundry basket from her. "I'm glad to hear those two are getting along again."

"Yeah," the man agreed as he placed the basket on the floor in their bathroom. He propped a shoulder against the doorway, peering into the room across the hall, watching as Caillou and Leo learned to share the toy.

His wife, however, abruptly gained a sour expression, huffing and folding her fists on her hips. She, too, peeked at the children, happy they were getting along, but frustrated that her rule had been undermined. "Boris, why are Caillou and Leo playing with that pinwheel? Caillou has to learn that he can't always get his way by crying; the doctor told us that."

"Yeah… yeah, I know, but, look at him, Doris. That's the first time I've seen him smile in weeks. Besides, what real harm could it do?"

"But," The woman had started, her mouth forming around a technical reasoning that was word-for-word what some doctor or book had told her. She bit her tongue, however, as her husband gazed at her with a childish pout. "Oh, alright… but, this is the last time. We have to get him adjusted to the doctor's orders here before he's admitted to the hospital."

"Oh, don't worry," Boris confidentially assured her, pecking her cheek before heading downstairs to start preparing dinner. "We will."

Months of petty arguments and increasing debt had bent their marriage to its breaking point. The marriage, albeit rocky, had managed to endure the strain until Boris' lack of self-control had finally urged Doris into action.

Doris was bustling around the kitchen one night, preparing dinner while her estranged husband had gone to run errands. She sighed and swiped her sleeve across her brow, the steam rolling from the pot of water causing her to sweat. Ignoring the hot steam, she cracked a handful of dry noodles and tossed them into the water, waiting for them to come to a boil. She kept her eye on the pot, mentally reminding herself of what her grandmother had always told her: "A watched pot never boils." After what felt to be an eternity without any progress, she was beginning to think her grandmother had been right.

She let her eyes leave the pot, turning them toward the notebook resting atop the table. She moved to the table, taking a seat and hunching over the notebook, and she tried not to focus too heavily on the budget. Her mind buzzed with figures and equations, all of which provided no ease to her confusion. The bank account Boris and she shared was now in a negative balance, but the bills had no sympathy for this. A long groan escaped her. She massaged against her temples until a series of jingles caught her ear.

Boris was unlocking the door. The man was huffing, struggling to open the door as he held a large box atop one shoulder. Doris grew suspicious, narrowing her eyes as she heard the struggle, and she stood from her seat. She headed toward the door, but was a moment too late; her husband had finally managed to make his way into the living room.

"It's about time," Doris said in a somewhat icy tone, forcing a smile. "I thought you'd be back ages ago." She failed to notice the box despite it's bulky size and focused only on the bags. "Here," she continued, taking the paper bags from the crook of the man's arm. "I'll take these into the kitchen. I hope you remembered to get the tomato sauce."

Boris paled, smacking his forehead with the ball of his free hand. "Oh no! I completely forgot!" He exclaimed, though it was mostly targeted at himself. He cringed away when his wife's glare turned back to him. "I'm sorry, Doris. Uh, I could go back as soon as I-,"

"Don't bother, Boris," Doris sighed, trying not to let her anger boil over. It was then, however, that she noticed the box. "What's that?"

Boris anxiously rubbed the back of his neck as he carried the box into the den. His wife followed closely behind, still holding the groceries against her bosom. "Oh, this is just a little surprise for Caillou," the man attempted to explain.

"Boris!" Doris scolded in a soft whisper as she watched her kids playing in the den. "I've told you about this a hundred times! We can't afford this."

"I know, but look at him," Boris whispered in return, gesturing toward their sickly son. "I just want to see him happy while we still can."

Caillou was knelt on the floor, dazedly clopping Rexy along the rug while Rosie roared and giggled. The young boy's weakened eyes slowly trailed from his sister to his father, which brought an askew smile to his face.

"Daddy!" He cried, struggling to his feet as he attempted to leap from the floor and run to his father. Instead of darting into the man's arms as he often did before he'd fallen ill, he wobbled and fell against his father's shin, hugging it instead. Rosie quickly followed suit, unknowingly mocking her brother's funny movements.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Rosie giggled, nuzzling against her father's opposite shin. Her eyes grew wide when she noticed the box. "Ooh! Present! Daddy brought present!"

Boris gave a nervous titter as his wife shot him a suppressed glare, "aha, that's right, Rosie. Daddy brought Caillou a present."

"Oh," the young girl quipped, her face turning crestfallen.

Boris took notice of his daughter fret and gently patted her shoulder. "There, there; it's okay, Rosie. I'm sure Caillou will share his toy." The statement was followed by a sniffle, Boris turning his gaze toward his wife, "what's that smell?"

Suddenly, Doris gasped and rushed toward the kitchen, smelling smoke and hearing faint sizzles from the stove's burners. "Oh no!" She shrilled, dashing toward the oven and clicking off the knob. Tears daubed her eyes as she noticed the splashes of boiling water dripping down the stove and puddling along the floor, overcooked noodles burning as they curled around the element's rungs. "It's ruined! Oh, now what are we going to do?"

Boris stood in the door, face peppered with worry as he listened to the tears breaking in the woman's voice. His children shadowed him, Rosie gripping to his leg while Caillou stood on tiptoes and tried peering around the man's tall frame.

"Don't worry, dear," the man assured as he entered the kitchen, gesturing for his children to stay in the doorway. "We can just…" He trailed off for a moment, hesitantly placing a hand atop Doris' shoulder. "Order a pizza."

"Pizza!" Caillou shouted from the doorway, glee replacing whatever frets he held. "Did you hear that, Rosie? We're having pizza for supper!"

"Oh, no, Caillou," Boris tried to explain, turning to his son while still holding his wife's shoulder, "I was just suggesting-,"

"Pizza! Pizza!" Rosie cheered and clapped her pudgy hands, oblivious to the worry on her father's face.

"C'mon, Rosie," her older brother exclaimed as he turned to lead her into the den, "let's go play with my new toy until the pizza man gets here."

Once silence filled the darkened kitchen and the children were distant, Doris took a seat in one of the chairs. Her shoulders slumped and a sigh ripped from her breast; tears rolled freely, yet quietly down her cheeks as her forehead collapsed into the crooks of her arms. She sniveled, restraining a sob, and her dark eyes fell upon her husband's face.

"Pizza?" She shrieked in a choked whisper, slamming her hands on the notebook she was previously worrying over. "Pizza! Boris, look at this!" She demanded, shoving the notebook toward her husband, which caused him to take the seat opposite her and gather the notebook. "Look at how far behind we've gotten."

"Doris, please," the man pleaded, glancing over the numbers without registering them, "it-it'll be alright. I know, we could… take out another mortgage on the house. Or, or we could-,"

Doris' face screwed, a sarcastic gasp of a chuckle leaving her chest, which her fingers sprawled against in shock, "another mort-… have you completely lost your mind?"

"I'm just trying to help."

"Oh, really?" The woman laughed, her eyes bugging and her chest puffing. "And I suppose buying Caillou all these expensive toys every week is going to get us out of debt, huh?"

Boris extended a hand to rest it atop his wife's, to which she instantly recoiled. Hurt marred his face as his fingers wilted into his palm and his heart into his stomach; tears lined his throat as he gazed at the ones on the woman's face. His fingers ached to brush them away, but they simply trembled in restraint. "Sweetheart, please, try to understand."

"I've been trying to understand for months!" She wailed, clasping a hand across her face before rubbing her temples. She swiped her tears on her palm as her hand fell back to the table; her lower lip was ground against her teeth as her fingers anxiously drummed against the tabletop. Her heart slowed to low thuds and her brows furrowed in unspoken thoughts. She drew in another breath, sighing once more, "I… I ca-can't do this anymore, Boris."

The man's thick brows twisted in shock and then hurt, his chocolate eyes melting as tears piped them. "Wha-what do you mean?"

"What I mean is," Doris continued, her voice low, a muddle of irritation and heartache, "I can't keep doing this – worrying about bills, watching Caillou go through all those horrible treatments, trying to get you to work with me instead of against me."

"What do you mean I'm working against you? Doris, I've been with you at every appointment; watching Caillou go through that isn't any easier for me as it is for you."

"Maybe so, but if you would just listen to me once in awhile." She paused, her head wilting as she pushed away from the table and arose from her seat. She gripped her head once again before sliding her fingers through her unkempt brunette locks. Her hands sluggishly slipped to rest in the curves of her waist before crossing over her chest. She pushed the sobs from her throat and sniveled, "I'm sorry. I need some time. I talked to my mom earlier this week and, well, we both thought it'd be best if I stayed with her for awhile."

Flabbergasted, Boris arose from his chair, inching timidly behind his wife before firmly pressing his hands on her shoulders. He craned his neck into the crook of hers, tears hitting the collar of her shirt and his voice nipping at the lobe of her ear in a shaky whisper, "Doris, please. Wha-what are you saying? We can… we can work this out. I need you. Caillou and Rosie need you. Please, don't go."

Doris ripped away from the man's grasp, leaning against the doorway and crying against it for a moment. She turned her gaze back to her estranged husband, eyes sparkling with tears; she hadn't meant to tear away so crudely, but the damage was clear across his face. Her lips turned further downward as she swiped away any evidence of tears and entered the den.

Caillou instantly twisted his head to the sound of her footsteps. A smile was beaming across his face, stretching from one ear to the other, and he feebly walked toward her. He lifted a plastic dinosaur upward toward her face, and he laughed in a way they hadn't heard since their ordeal had begun, "look, Mommy, it's a triceratops. And it has pterodactyls and tyrannosauruses, and it even came with volcanoes and a jungle. It's the best toy eve-," he paused then, noticing the bittersweet smile and the dried tears on his mother's face. "Mommy? Why are you crying?"

"Oh, Caillou," she whispered, fighting against the urge to break into another fit. She cleared her throat, running a hand over the boy's bald scalp before placing a soft kiss to the spot. Her hands fell atop his shoulders as she knelt to his level; her heart sunk, but she mustered a smile and a small laugh. "I'm okay, Caillou. Bu-but, Mommy has to go away for a little while," when her son's eyes threatened to water, she quickly added, "err, for business, so I can bring you back lots of toys when you go to the doctor. Now, doesn't that sound nice?"

"Yes," Caillou chirped, the smile reluctantly returning.

"That's my boy. Now, I want you be a good boy for Daddy while I'm away, and take good care of Rosie for me, okay?"

Boris stood there for a moment, gaping at the situation. Confusion was a fine veil dusting his entire being, while every action he could have taken was played only in his mind. He envisioned many blurbs of saving his family, stopping the woman from leaving, regaining all wholesome qualities they once had; alas, his mind was stronger than his physical being, his muscles quivering with hopelessness and anxiety. The only real action he manifested was a sputter and a flimsy stagger in her direction.

When he regained his voice, he deadpanned, "Doris, please, don't do this." It was then that he noticed the innocent, yet oddly saddened eyes of his children staring up at him. He cleared his throat and adjusted his stance, wanting to seem the normal, cheerful father that he typically was. He stumbled toward the door, grasping it just before the woman could shut it, and he stopped her with a simple call, "yo-you'll be back from work soon, won't you?"

There was no business, no work, but in the eyes of their children, their mother was dressed in a fancy blouse and skirt while she busily filed papers and answered phone calls. To them, she would be working for a short time, and in the meantime, they'd have their father to care for them. There wasn't anything concerning about their mother returning to work, even if it did seem such a sudden event. It was strange, yet it was a normal thing that happened once in awhile – it was normal.

However, Boris could see through the smokescreen; he knew his wife was going to be absent, no filing papers involved. She was going to be with her mother, shopping and chatting over coffee, while he struggled to care for two young children, one being riddled with cancer. He knew all of this, yet had to act as though nothing were amiss. Parenthood, after all, was fending ignorance for the sake of preserving a child's innocence toward a cruel world.

"I'm going to be late," Doris uttered, her voice just loud enough for her children to hear. Without thought and out of habit, she pecked a kiss to her husband's cheek, silently bidding him farewell before skulking down the steps of their porch. Her eyes were questioning as she stared at the man's darkened silhouette in the doorway, but she clamored into her car nonetheless.

With the revving sound of an engine, Boris' heart shattered in the doorway. He gulped, adjusting to the vacancy his heart had left behind, and he shuddered in a repressed sob as he shut the door. He rested against it for a moment, his eyes wandering before focusing on the perplexed faces of his children. The void in his chest widened, yet his lips perked with a phony smile.

"Okay, kids," he mustered a happy tone, "last one upstairs is a rotten egg."

"Rotten egg?" Caillou tittered, scrunching his nose at the visual. "Pyew!"

"Yucky eggs!" Rosie confirmed with a roar of her own laughter. Her giggling only heightened as she was lifted from the ground and carried up the staircase by her father, who was following after his son.

Caillou had started the ascent with a peppy sprint, slowing drastically as he conquered each step. His giddy giggles and high-pitched sounds of glee had begun to shift into sputters of themselves. His father was staring at him with a worried, unconscious frown along his face, not realizing the expression until his daughter's pudgy hands began pushing at his face, trying to upturn the man's mouth.

"Daddy sad?" She asked before placing a kiss to his cheek. "Rosie make better!"

A feeble smile was birthed, twitching at the corners at the young girl's happy squealing. He nodded, allowing his daughter to believe she had cured him of his despair.

"Um, Caillou," Boris instructed after clearing his throat, "why don't you go and get into your pajamas, huh? I'll come tuck you in as soon as I put Rosie to bed, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy." Caillou had hardly finished his sentence before a rupture of coughs rose from his chest. His steps turned lethargic as he scampered toward his bedroom; once there, he struggled with the simple task of slipping into his pajamas, the act absolutely exhausting.

It took him several minutes of standing in the hall after putting Rosie to bed that Boris could gather himself enough to inch toward his son's door. His heart sank and his breath bated, fearful of his own fears. The thought of finding a lifeless body of his son sent a heat throughout his body, his neck tightening and his hairs raising slightly. Panic gnawed at him, refusing to flee even after he drew in a cleansing breath. Finally, after an eternity of clinging to the doorknob, he pushed open the door and entered the room, sighing with relief as his son sat up in bed.

"Alright, sport," he chirped with a sickeningly false grin. "How about a bedtime story?"

Caillou simply shook his head, yawning before groaning in pain. He rested weakly against his pillow, his eyes sliding over toward his father. He coughed, "Da-Daddy, why was Mommy crying when she left? Does she not like her job anymore?"

"What?" The man gasped, somewhat taken aback. "Oh, Caillou, no, Mommy loves her job." His voice trembled and then lowered to a mutter, "more than she does us, apparently."

"Huh?"

"Oh! Um, no-nothing, Caillou. Why don't I just let you get some sleep, huh? You want to grow up big and stro-," he paused the common phrase, a gut-gnawing realization that his son had a small chance of growing up big and strong – the boy had a small chance of growing up at all. "Err, just get some sleep, okay? It's been a long day."

The four-year-old coughed and gasped, "ca-can we call Mo-ommy? I want to tell her goodnight."

The man shook his head, sighing as frustration began to tickle the backs of his ribs. "I really don't think that's such a good idea. Mommy's probably very bus-,"

"Please, Daddy? I want to tell her goodnight. Ple-eee-ease?"

"No!" Boris finally snapped, promptly nipping his tongue with sharp teeth as his son's face screwed and his eyes daubed with water. Boris grabbed his chest, breathing heavily, shaking his head. "Oh, Caillou… Caillou, I'm sorry. I-it's just… I'm so sorry."

Caillou's head lowered and his hands clasped. He spoke in a delicate, dark whisper, "Mommy didn't go to work, did she, Daddy?"

"Wha-," Boris stammered. "What makes you think that? Of course she went to wor-,"

"No, she didn't!" Caillou abruptly shouted, bursting into sobs and coughs, as his body began to shake. "She… she was so sa-ad, Daddy! Sh-sh-she was always sad be-be-because I'm si-iii-ick! Sh-she doesn't love me anymo-oo-ore!"

Instinctively, Boris gathered the boy into his arms, cradling his wailing son. He rested a hand along the back of the hairless scalp, feeling the hallow above the neck growing deeper, and tried fruitlessly to shush Caillou. He rocked Caillou just as he had when the boy was an infant. Boris was a moth, the joyful memories of yesterdays being an all too alluring flame; he knew, should he dare get too close to those happier days, he would regret it once the violent stinging of emotional death settled. Caillou's wailing grew stronger, working as a distraction from Boris' inner workings, bringing the father back into a bleak and abysmal reality.

"Caillou!" He shouted in a ghostly whisper, clinging the boy closer to his chest. "Caillou, why on Earth would you say something like that?"

"Because," Caillou sniveled, drawing in a quaking breath as his chest fluttered heavily. The boy gasped, hiccuping between them, as he clung tighter to his father's shirt. The burning in his chest and the concrete of emotion and illness flooded his lungs only reminded him of the exact reason he'd said such a thing. His chest tightened, his grip now wringing the fabric of the shirt, and his head flitted through different scores of mental static. "Because, I'm broken..."

The words seemed to pierce his heart as the organ shuddered. His grasp on the shirt would tighten and loosen in sporadic moments, his hiccups evolved into jagged attempts for air, and his vision and hearing were sewn with cotton. The whole world around him was nothing more than a dark blob with faint figures being outlined only by memory. Panic struck him in a way that he'd not yet known existed, and his free hand flew to clasp at his own chest. He balled the fabric of his shirt in a fist, hissing through a wheeze, "Daddy… I don't feel good..."

"Oh, no, champ, you're not..." Boris paused as tears gritted his teeth. "You're not broken. Please, don't ever say that again. Okay?"

It was then that Boris' efforts at consoling the child faltered, noticing the panic attack had morphed into a different beast entirely. This beast wasn't bred from anxiety over a suddenly absent mother, or a sadness over an illness the boy hardly understood, or even of the confusion over months of his parents' slowly changing into somber creatures. This beast was a killer, thirsty not for a jolly time of watching the child struggle to cope with reality for the first time, but for the very child himself.

The beast – cancer – stalked its prey carefully. It waited patiently, lingering in the shadows of Caillou's bloodstream for ages, licking its lips as the innocence slowly burned to ash. Once it had allowed the time for the family to dissolve and for Caillou to take his first gulp of acerbic reality, it pounced.

Caillou was finally vulnerable enough for cancer to rake its claws much deeper than just his innards; it had managed to claw straight through every sense and efficiently unravel everything the boy once was. Not only did this beast stalk his organs to gorge itself, it had found a mate somewhere in the emotional psyche, breeding death itself.

"Caillou? Caillou, are you alright?" Boris questioned, his eyes were wide and already daubing with tears as the boy's fit went from a rapid boil to hardly a simmer on a dime. "Caillou?!" He cried allowed, jumping up from the bed with his son limp in his arms. He gently tapped the boy's face, debating on just how hard he was willing to smack the child should the need arise. "Caillou, can you hear me?"

Caillou couldn't hear his father, but the nuzzle he gave to the chest was accepted as confirmation by Boris. The man cradled his son tighter before rushing into the hall and yanking a phone from its receiver, somehow managing to fumble over the speed-dial labeled for his mother. "Mom," he barked through a quaking voice once the line connected, "I need you to come watch Rosie - now! Something… something's wrong! I've got to get Caillou to the hospital."

Three weeks had come to pass since the night Boris found his every nightmare meld into his waking world. Many phone calls had been placed since the frantic speed-dial for his mother, most being either from doctors or to Doris. Doris had answered each call, always bursting into sobs as she was updated on his son's condition – unstable at first, then very critical, and eventually vegetative – yet hadn't visited the hospital after any of the calls.

Boris rubbed at the stray hairs that littered his jawline as he sleeplessly watched over his son. Caillou's chest moved at an agonizing pace, only doing so with help from the gaping hole in his neck that suckled at a breathing tube. Everything was manually done for the child, whose peaceful expression hadn't flinched since the tube had been inserted. The vibrant, active four-year-old that ran through Boris' mind was now laying motionless before him. After much damage caused by the body itself, and after two hours of long debates with himself and family, Boris had been swayed to proceed with a medically-induced coma.

He cleared his throat as he pressed his cell phone to his ear, growing impatient as the rings continued to multiply. His thumb hovered over the button that would end his call, but recoiled when the weepy voice of his estranged wife answered.

"He-hello? How is he? Is he any better? Have you found anything out?"

Boris tasted an acrimonious bile against his throat and then spat it into the phone, "well, Doris, maybe if you were actually here, you'd know what was happening with your son – my son."

"I can't see him like that, Boris! I can't!" She shrieked through the phone, already sobbing. "Do you know how many times I've driven by the hospital, wanting to go see our son? I get halfway to the door before I completely lose myself."

"This isn't about us," Boris interrupted quietly, yet sharply. "I've lost myself, too, but I'm still here, sitting by Caillou's bedside, watching him breathe through a damn tube!"

"I… I can't see my baby that way. Maybe you can, bu-but I'm not that strong. I feel sick just thi-inking about it! I..." she paused, her voice suddenly honing a false hope, "I'll se-see him once he comes home. That would be better, don't you think?"

Boris sighed, inhaling every toxin, every cynical entity of the world and exhaling into the phone, "he's not coming home, Doris."

"We-well, maybe not today, but soo-,"

"Never. He's never coming home, Doris. Caillou's dying, so, unless the next place you want to see our son is at his funeral, I'd suggest you come see him now."

Another inhale, this one from the opposite end of the line, and a drawn out exhale of realization, "I'll be there in ten minutes."

The months after were bitter and long, seeming to stretch themselves simply to spite the parents. Doris had seen her son only twice after she'd first left home, once while the monitor bleated into a flat-line and another when her forever-four-year-old rested within his final home – a satin-lined coffin with Rexy, Teddy, and his special dinosaur pinwheel by his side. When she returned home with Boris and Rosie after the funeral service, her heart crashed into her knees, nearly sending her to the ground. She thought of how mad she'd been when the toy that greeted her, still scattered across the floor, was bought, yet now she wanted more than anything to see her son playing with the set.

They lived within the same household, but the two parents never seemed as they once were. Doris was always distracting herself by cleaning or gardening, and Boris was always reading the paper with a frown. Rosie observed them as best she could through her cracked rose-colored glasses, suddenly realizing that (after doing so herself for the first time) it was easier to fake a smile than to wear a real one. The real ones were rare, they were only there when Caillou was there to share them with her.

Similar to her parents, Rosie had grown more reserved and quiet, only speaking if she saw Mommy or Daddy give her one of their best fake grins. The grins never lasted longer than a moment, however. While Rosie had grown more quiet, when she did speak, she often unknowingly said the dreaded new word she'd learned while attending her big brother's funeral - "cancer."

"Love never dies a natural death.

It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.

It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals.

It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings."

― Anaïs Nin