Every week, an elderly man walked into the hospital, guiding his two grown sons for their enzyme replacement therapy (ERT). Both lived with Hunter syndrome (MPS II), an X-linked disorder caused by a deficiency of an enzyme called iduronate-2-sulfatase. For years, the father bore this duty with quiet resilience, never missing an appointment.

Then, it happened again. His daughter’s little boy, his grandson, was diagnosed with the same disease.

For the grandfather, the news was devastating. He had already carried the burden of watching two sons lose their independence. Now, another generation bore the same fate. His heart broke as he realized the shadow of MPS II had not left his family.

The diagnosis also fractured relationships. The child’s father, overwhelmed with grief, turned his anger into blame, questioning his wife and even his father-in-law for letting history repeat itself. Genetics became not just a diagnosis, but a wedge in family bonds.

Still, the grandfather continued his weekly routine: shepherding his sons for therapy and now his grandson, too. But as the years passed, age weighed on him. The weekly race to the hospital was no longer possible. Frail and exhausted, he asked the doctors for another way.

That is when the family came to us, seeking a more permanent solution: hematopoietic stem cell transplantation (HSCT). Unlike ERT, which demands lifelong weekly infusions, HSCT offered the possibility of a one-time intervention with lasting benefit. But it came with risks.

The boy had no siblings, and no perfect HLA match could be found. After counseling, the father stepped forward as a haploidentical donor, only a partial match. For the grandfather, it was hope that perhaps his grandson might finally escape the same relentless routine.

My colleague, who led the transplant pathway, worked tirelessly. She carried the boy’s case in her heart, determined to give him the best chance possible. My colleague was not alone in this journey. Our division head stood firmly behind the case, pushing every boundary to fast-track the transplant process so that the child could get his best chance at a cure without delay. Alongside her, our pediatric oncology faculty took on the formidable task of attempting a haploidentical transplant, knowing the odds were stacked against success, yet still giving everything possible to tip the balance in the child’s favor.

But fate was not kind. The engraftment failed. The child developed severe infections, and despite the best of care, he succumbed. The family was devastated. So was my colleague. For her, it was not just a patient lost, but a battle fought and lost despite giving everything.

And yet, the story did not end there. The grandfather still walks the hospital corridors every week, this time for his two adult sons. Age has slowed him, but the burden has not lifted. What is even more painful is the toll beyond the hospital: his younger daughter, who is unaffected, now finds marriage proposals disappearing. In their village, whispers spread that there must be “some problem” in the family. Stigma has joined suffering, turning a medical condition into social isolation.

Despite all the love poured in by the family, despite the dedication of doctors, and despite every tool modern medicine could offer, the outcome was still heartbreak. Science has given us therapies, transplants, and hope, but it still has limitations. Not every story has a cure, not every transplant succeeds, and not every child survives.

But acknowledging these limitations is not a defeat. It is a call to work differently. To strengthen genetic counseling, so that families understand risks early. To expand carrier testing, so choices are informed. To build support systems so stigma does not add to suffering. And to continue research, so tomorrow’s families may have more answers than today’s.

For the grandfather in this story, hospital corridors will remain a part of his life. But for future families, perhaps science and society together can make the path less lonely, less painful, and less repetitive.

Because even when science cannot change the ending, it can and must change the beginning.