Kmomof4 has been requesting that I finally start publishing this piece, and given the World Cup madness currently taking place, I've caved to her wishes. This is the most advanced WIP in my folder, but I've been sitting on it for so long as it's a bit of a tear-jerker.

Again, I can't promise a firm update schedule for it. But as you probably know by now, I try not to keep you waiting too long.

Emma had to admit, football was not one of her favourite past times. She still didn't understand half the rules of the game, no matter how many times her father, or Henry, tried to explain them to her. But she wouldn't trade her season ticket for anything. Seeing the way Henry's face lit up at those games more than made up for her cold feet and lack of understanding.

David had started taking Henry to games when he was old enough to sit relatively still for the duration of the match. It had been their grandfather-son bonding trip, and as soon as Henry had started showing an interest in the games, it quickly became a tradition.

David bought Henry his first season ticket at the age of five.

Emma had started joining them a year later, when her son just wouldn't stop banging on about this play, or that play, and she really had no idea what he was talking about. She'd hoped that joining them would help her pick up the game faster.

It never did.

Henry missed his first game at the age of seven.

Emma had been sure that it was just a virus, and that he'd be back at Old Trafford in time for the next home game.

But Henry missed eighteen more games that season.

Leukaemia.

The diagnosis hit her in the face like a tonne of bricks, and Emma had to excuse herself from her son's bedside to empty the contents of her stomach into the small toilet in his private room.

Her seven-year-old son had Leukaemia.

Henry never lost his spirit. Even on his worst days, he always had a bright smile for his mother and grandparents. David would make a point of coming to the hospital for every game. He'd subscribed to all of the sports channels, regardless of their cost, just so he could stream them to watch with his grandson.

The first bone marrow aspiration was the most painful procedure Emma had ever undergone.

But the physical pain didn't even begin to compare to the emotional blow of finding out that she wasn't a match for her son. And neither were either of her parents.

The logical step was to attempt to hunt down Henry's father. But Emma hadn't seen him since he'd been caught stealing and sent to Strangeways. Neal didn't even know he was a father, and she had absolutely no idea how to go about finding him.

Emma wasn't sure what possessed her to do it, but as she watched her son waste away before her eyes, desperate for a bone marrow match, she decided that it was time to take drastic action.

While Henry and David caught the Champion's League group game that evening, Emma reached for her laptop.

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing today to beg for your help.

My son, Henry, is one of your biggest supporters. He's been attending games with his grandfather since he was three. He got his first season ticket at the age of five. And between the ages of five and seven, he never missed a home game, no matter what the weather was doing.

This year, my son has missed eighteen games so far.

He was diagnosed with Leukaemia shortly after the season began.

He still watches the matches with his grandfather, whenever he can. But it's not the same for him. I know he misses the atmosphere in the stadium.

My son is in desperate need of a stem cell transplant to save his life. I'm not a match. Neither are his grandparents. I suspect that his father may well be, but he doesn't even know his son exists, and I have no idea where to begin looking for him.

The British Bone Marrow Registry hasn't been able to find him a match, so I'm writing to you today to beg for your help.

My son loves this team so much, and I'm hoping your team will be able to help him to continue to do so, for many years to come.

All I'm asking is for you to please, help me find a match for my son?

Yours,

Emma Swan.

She attached a picture of Henry at one of the last games he had been to, before his diagnosis, and sent the email before she could second guess her actions.

Emma turned her attention back to David and Henry, and their screams at the small television screen in front of them, as she pushed her laptop aside once more.

Thanks for reading.