At just 20 months old, William Harper has already endured more than many people face in a lifetime. Yet despite the surgeries, the pain, and the endless hospital corridors, one thing has never left him — his smile. It is that smile, bright and stubborn, that carries his family through the darkest days of a battle they never imagined they would be fighting.
Only months ago, William was a typical toddler. Curious, playful, learning the world one small step at a time. Then, in September, his parents Laura Deans and Joe Harper were delivered words no parent is ever prepared to hear. Doctors had discovered a tumour on their baby’s brain — almost the size of an orange. Without urgent and extensive surgery, they were told, William might not survive.
The diagnosis was devastating: a malignant neuroepithelial brain tumour.
From that moment on, life split into before and after.
In the seven months that followed, William underwent three brain surgeries. Each one carried unbearable risk. Each one required his parents to hand their tiny son over to surgeons, trusting that skill and science could do what love alone could not. Between operations, came chemotherapy — four gruelling rounds that ravaged his little body. The pain was so severe at times that doctors had to manage it with morphine and ketamine, watching closely as his body struggled to cope with treatment designed to save his life.
For Laura, those months blurred together into a haze of fear and endurance. “Chemotherapy really knocked him,” she recalls. “Seeing your child in that much pain is something that never leaves you.”
And yet, William kept going.
In February, he faced another major surgery. Then, barely weeks later, the next phase of treatment began — proton beam therapy, one of the most advanced and targeted forms of radiotherapy available. At such a young age, William is one of the youngest patients ever to undergo this level of intensive treatment for brain tumours.
For seven consecutive weeks, William must travel daily to The Christie Hospital in Manchester. Each session requires general anaesthetic. Every single day. The toll is enormous. He is tired. Sometimes grumpy. Sometimes confused. And still, in between it all, he laughs. He smiles. He wants to play.
“Between all the serious treatments, he’s still just a happy wee boy,” Laura says. “He takes everything in his stride.”
Proton beam therapy is designed to target tumours with extraordinary precision, reducing damage to healthy tissue — a crucial consideration for a developing brain. For William, it offers hope not just of survival, but of a future where his little body and mind can grow with fewer long-term effects. But hope comes at a cost: distance, separation, and emotional strain.
While Laura stays in Manchester with William, living in a small apartment near the hospital, Joe remains at home caring for their three-year-old daughter, Freya. The family is split between two cities, two routines, two versions of life — connected by phone calls, weekend visits, and the shared determination to keep going.
Laura makes the journey alone most days, sitting by William’s bedside as he is put to sleep again and again for treatment. Joe travels back and forth when he can, balancing work, parenting, and the quiet fear that comes with watching your child fight cancer from a distance. For Freya, her baby brother’s absence is felt deeply, even if she doesn’t fully understand why.
Throughout this journey, the family has not been alone. Support has come from unexpected places — from relatives, friends, and charities who understand the weight of childhood cancer. The Love Oliver charity, a Scottish organisation dedicated to funding childhood cancer research and supporting affected families, has been a lifeline. They have helped the Harpers navigate not just the medical maze, but the emotional one too.
Recently, Laura’s cousin Pamela Brown and a small group of friends took part in a sponsored Kiltwalk to raise funds for Love Oliver. Seventeen and a half laps. Thirteen miles. Strangers stopped to donate along the way. By the end, £1,700 had been raised — a figure boosted further by foundation matching. For Laura, it wasn’t just about the money. It was about knowing people cared.
“When you’re in the middle of this,” she says, “those gestures remind you that you’re not invisible.”
William is now halfway through his proton beam therapy. There are still weeks to go. There are still unknowns ahead. No one can say exactly what the future will hold — what challenges may come, or what victories await. But one thing is certain: William has already shown the world what resilience looks like.
He is not defined by his diagnosis. He is defined by his laughter in hospital rooms, by the way he reaches for toys between treatments, by the quiet strength of a child who doesn’t yet understand fear — but keeps smiling anyway.
For his parents, that smile is everything. It is the reason they wake up and do it all again tomorrow. It is proof that even in the face of brain cancer, even under the weight of surgeries and chemotherapy and daily anaesthetics, hope can still live in the smallest of hearts.
And as William continues his fight, one smile at a time, he carries with him the love of his family — and the unwavering belief that his story is far from over.