Co Down mum Rachel Johnston never thought something so terrible would happen to her daughter - that little person she'd carried for nine months, cared for and protected from the big bad world.
And then it did.
"My first child is my little girl, Honour," Rachel from Millisle told UTV.
"I have adored her since the day I first looked at her little wrinkled-up face. I watched her grow into a little beauty with her long, dark ebony locks, flawless skin and blue eyes ..."
And from the smiling little girl who'd twirl around the house in fairy costumes, Honour grew up with a big imagination, a flare for writing, and dreams of becoming a journalist and author.
All too soon, she was ready for 'big school'.
She still just looked like a little girl, much too wee to be going into a secondary school.
That first year at Glastry College in Newtownards flew in, in a blur of new friends and new experiences. Second year beckoned.
"Her first day back at school went well. She came home and seemed happy enough, but wasn't feeling at herself," Rachel recalled. "I thought: 'Oh no, not schoolitis already!'"
Even with the age-old mummy trick of ice-cream failing to work its magic, Rachel was still almost sure it was just a bug - but with niggling thoughts of appendicitis looming, the doctor was called.
One examination later and Honour was on her way to the Ulster Hospital, almost definitely with a case of appendicitis. Almost.
"The waiting in itself was painful. We sat for hours and hours. Would we EVER be seen ..."
Finally she was. It wasn't appendicitis.
"A doctor examined her tummy and gave her an ultrasound - he could clearly see a cyst on her ovary. He assured us that these were very common," Rachel said.
"They took bloods and a urine sample and we waited for a while in the waiting area again. Honour was called in two more times to repeat the urine sample. I wondered why."
It was now 3am.
"They took more bloods, then came in for more and AGAIN for more. I thought: 'She's going to end up being admitted for a transfusion if this goes on!'"
The cyst was much bigger than normal - about the size of a football.
"We need to get her to the Royal," the doctor said, as Honour cried and pleaded to go home.
Once transferred to the Royal Victoria Hospital, the little girl endured days of scans, x-rays and blood tests before her mum was called into a room full of doctors.
"Their faces spoke volumes. I was shaking so much the nurse held onto my hands to try to calm me."
Honour needed major emergency surgery. High-risk surgery. It went well, but the biopsy results were still to come. More waiting.
"I wouldn't settle until I knew," Rachel said. "I gave the hospital my dad's number to call as I would be too afraid to answer the phone."
About a week passed. Rachel's dad called to the house.
"He looked flushed and kind of in shock. I knew. I knew what he was going to say," Rachel said.
No one said the word cancer. He didn't need to - I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"I prolonged hearing it as long as I could. I babbled about everything - I wouldn't stop talking because while I was talking, he wouldn't be able to get the words in. The words I'd been fearing.
"He walked over to me, right up to my face, and said calmly: 'Now, Rachel ... she has a wee problem.' I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, I was going to pass out. All I heard was the word chemo."
Honour wasn't even over her operation when she and her mum found themselves in the children's cancer ward at the Royal. Rachel still couldn't believe it was happening to her daughter at all, much less that it was a rare form of ovarian cancer.
"I remember stopping and staring at a little girl standing with her father. She was beautiful in a pretty floral dress and big brown eyes, smiling as she played with a teddy.
"But her bald head overwhelmed me.
"And then I thought: 'My Honour is going to be bald, she's going to lose her hair - she's a cancer patient. A CANCER PATIENT? My child ... a cancer patient?'"
Honour did lose her hair, but she handled the trauma of chemotherapy well - showing courage and strength, staying positive, never complaining or asking why this had happened to her.
Her mum prayed every night that the treatment would work, that her daughter would be cured, that she would survive. She thought that would make her the happiest person in the world.
It really just hit me there and then - this happens to children every day in REAL life.
Christmas was hard. It came, Rachel sat on the sofa and fought back tears as Honour decorated their tree, and it went.
And then ... the big day.
"Honour went down to theatre to have her line removed. It was the day I was sure I'd feel ecstatic about. I wasn't. I was ... numb. But it was OVER," Rachel said.
Several months on and Honour has finished her chemo. She's back at school. Her hair has grown back.
"Why am I not jumping up and down? Why am I not the happiest person alive, like I said I would be? Why do I feel so hopeless?" Rachel wonders.
"I think, like a lot of mothers who have gone through this, I feel drained. Life has kicked the hell out of me and I'm lying battered and bruised with wounds that won't heal.
"Obviously I'm delighted than Honour is fine, but - like with every other child forced to go through this - I just feel a sense of injustice that she had to go through it in the first place."
So now Rachel and Honour are supporting the CLIC Sargent Home from Home appeal, which aims to provide accommodation for families to reduce the strain of travelling to and from hospitals.
Because dealing with cancer is tough enough and support is much needed, both during and after the ordeal of treatment.
"I've still got my child, I should be grateful. I should be happy, but still I just feel dead inside and guilty for feeling like that," Rachel said.
"My child didn't die. But the long-lasting threat was a bit like being held hostage - not knowing what would happen from day to day, not knowing if you'd all get out alive. And when you do ...