Luisa Corral moves her hand slowly in front of her son’s face, one finger at a time. Juan de Jesus, whom she calls Juanito, instinctively follows the motion with his left eye, but his right remains still. This is a daily ritual for Luisa, a 24-year-old mother from San Juan de las Huertas, who is watching every movement of her son’s eyes, hoping for any sign that the cancer in his right eye might not progress further. The left eye, though still showing some vision, could be lost despite treatment efforts.

Life in the Shelter

Sitting on a wooden bench in the Mexican Association for the Aid of Children with Cancer (AMANC), Luisa waits in the hot and stuffy lobby of the nonprofit’s shelter. Around her, the walls are adorned with photos of former patients, some smiling, some playing, while a board lists the names, ages, and home states of the children staying at the shelter. Luisa and other families wait for a social worker to coordinate hospital visits, transportation, and psychological services. The nonprofit provides free accommodation and three meals a day, but the costs of travel and other necessities still weigh heavily on the family.

Luisa’s son rests against her chest, feverish after a restless night. She strokes his fine, damp hair, explaining that he woke up several times with cold sweat. Alone in an unfamiliar city and unable to afford a taxi, she waited in their room in the shelter, hoping the fever would ease until they could take the 7am minibus to see a paediatrician at the hospital.

“I kept looking at the clock. I was just waiting for it to be morning so I could take him to the doctor,” she says. The journey from her village to Mexico City is a four-hour trip, requiring her to change buses three times, two or three times a month. She stays in the capital for up to a week while doctors carry out repeated eye examinations and track the tumours, deciding whether to begin more aggressive treatment, including chemotherapy.

The Financial Burden

Luisa used to work in a clothing store, but now looks after Juanito full-time while her husband, Ricardo Quintín, works as a delivery driver for a local auto parts shop, earning about 2,000 pesos ($112) a week. Each journey to Mexico City costs about 800 pesos ($45) in buses and taxis to and from the shelter, and then back home again. Much of what Ricardo earns goes toward this transport, food, nappies, and anything else Juanito might need, as well as utilities, groceries, and any emergencies.

Though they live rent-free in a one-room house owned by Luisa’s parents, money is always tight. The surgery Juanito will eventually need—the removal of his right eye—is covered by Mexico’s public health system, as is much of his ongoing care. But private treatment is far beyond the family’s means, leaving them reliant on a system marked by long waiting times and complex administrative procedures.

After a paediatrician in her village urged her to seek further tests in Mexico City, Luisa waited several months for her son’s first appointment with a specialist in the capital. During those early visits, before being admitted to the AMANC shelter—which accepts patients through doctor referrals—she and Juanito stayed in a hotel near the hospital. It was her first time in the city. Coming from a small rural village, she says she felt overwhelmed by its size—the noise, the traffic, the crowds—and was afraid to go outside. Most days, she remained in the room with her baby, leaving only when she had to buy food, supplies, or make the journey to the hospital.

“I felt very alone, and everything was more expensive,” she says. “I didn’t know how I was going to manage.” To make the money last, she skipped meals, focusing on what her son needed, something she and her husband still do in Mexico City when things are tight.

Hope and Uncertainty

After learning about her financial situation, a doctor referred her to the centre. “It helped me a lot,” Luisa says. “I don’t think we could manage otherwise.” The uncertainty of her son’s situation makes her anxious, and she tries not to think too far ahead, focusing instead on getting him to each appointment, even as she worries about being able to keep affording the journeys or what lies ahead for her son.

She also needs to maintain up-to-date medical reports to access the centre, which may not always be available to them, depending on the referral doctor’s decision and whether there is space at the shelter. She worries about what Juanito’s life will look like if his vision deteriorates—whether he will be able to play, go to school, and move through the world as many other children do.

“It won’t be easy,” she says. “But I have to guide him so life isn’t difficult for him.” Later, in the centre’s small garden, Luisa plucks a red bougainvillaea and waves it gently in front of her son’s face. He laughs when the petals brush his skin. When she shifts the flower to his right side, he does not react. She moves it back. Sweat gathers on his forehead from the fever. Luisa wipes it gently with her sleeve and presses a kiss to his skin. His left eye follows the flower. She keeps her gaze fixed on him, rotating the stem slowly in her hand.

The story is part of a miniseries, Mothering on the Margins, exploring how five women around the world grapple with impossible circumstances to raise their children. Other stories in the series include a Ugandan mother’s fight against disability and stigma, a homeless mother in Delhi protecting her children, a Gaza grandmother raising an orphaned baby, and a mother’s battle against her daughter’s anorexia.