The only thing I have left in this life is my five-year-old son. I’ve been raising him alone since the day he was born, never complained, handled everything, until the diagnosis came that turned our life upside down: cancer.

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. She looked around, saw there were no free seats, and for some reason fixated on me immediately, even though there were plenty of healthy men around us calmly sitting and scrolling on their phones.

— Have you no shame at all? — she said loudly. — Young people today are completely disrespectful. Is it that hard to offer your seat to an older person?

My hands were shaking, but I had no strength to explain. On any other day, I would’ve stood up. But that day I could barely sit.

— There are men sitting over there, maybe they could… — I tried to say quietly.

— Oh, she talks back too! — she cut me off. — Sitting here like a lady, hiding her child, thinking she can do whatever she wants!

She kept insulting me, shouting, and I just listened silently.

The car fell silent, people were watching, but no one said a word. I felt small, humiliated, helpless. I swallowed my tears — I couldn’t cry in front of my son.

And then something happened that I never could have imagined. 

My little boy — usually so calm and gentle — suddenly turned toward the woman, furious in a way I had never seen before, and with one quick motion pulled my hood off.

— My mom is sick! — he shouted. — Can’t you see? She can barely stand! Grandma, you’re very mean!

The woman froze, as if the words had struck her. She couldn’t say a single thing. The people in the car, seeing my shaved head, seemed to wake up: one man stood up, then another, then a third.

Within seconds the entire row of seats was empty. Everyone stood, but nobody sat down — as if it were a quiet little protest against cruelty, against injustice, against judging without knowing.

The woman lowered her eyes, mumbled something indistinct, and turned away. And I just hugged my son. He was my only protector.