Ayesha Curry Hears Son Ask Stephen: “Are You Leaving Too?” — Her Reaction SHOCKED Everyone

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Are You Going Away Too? — A Family’s Journey Through Fear, Faith, and Love

The blue glow of the television flickered softly in the Curry family’s living room in Atherton, California, casting restless shadows that danced on the walls. It was late June, a Tuesday night, but the usual peace that filled the house was replaced by a heavy, unspoken tension. The air felt thick—not just with California’s typical humidity but with the weight of uncertainty and decisions that could change everything.

Steph Curry sat on the edge of the sofa, his fingers interlaced tightly—a posture Issha had come to recognize after more than a decade of marriage. It was his silent prayer pose, a way to seek divine guidance when the burdens of life became too heavy to bear alone. The television’s flickering light illuminated the lines of worry etched deeper on his face in recent weeks.

The sports reporter’s voice echoed through the room, relentless like a hammer striking the same nail: “The golden era of the Warriors may be coming to an end. Where will the greatest shooter in NBA history go next?”

Steph’s eyes remained glued to the screen, but his mind wrestled with a storm of emotions. “They talk as if my decision’s already made,” he murmured, frustration tinting his voice. “As if they know what’s going on in my mind better than I do.”

Issha entered quietly, carrying two cups of chamomile tea—a nightly ritual they maintained even during the hardest times. Her footsteps were soft, but the tension in her movements mirrored the emotional weight she bore. Kneeling beside Steph, she whispered a prayer, “God, give us wisdom to make the right decision for our family. Show us the path we should follow.”

Steph accepted the tea with a grateful smile but said nothing. Issha sat beside him, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “Whatever decision we make, we’ll make it together—with prayer and faith that God is guiding our steps.”

Despite her words, an undercurrent of anxiety ran deep in Issha’s heart—not about fame, money, or career, but about their children. Especially Canon, their five-year-old son, who had only ever known stability and security.

Upstairs, on the staircase leading to the bedrooms, tiny bare feet stopped on the tenth step. Canon Curry sat silently, his small legs swinging between the wooden balusters. Dressed in his favorite warrior’s pajamas—a birthday gift he treasured—his big, curious eyes were fixed on his parents’ conversation below.

How could a five-year-old possibly understand concepts like “leaving” and “going away” when applied to the only world he had ever known?

Canon had overheard these words repeatedly—from whispered conversations to news reports. He had heard the word “go” again and again, and his little heart began to race. In his young mind, “going away” meant one thing: people leaving the ones they loved. He’d seen it before—friends whose parents separated, families that fell apart.

“But what about the children?” Steph’s voice cracked slightly as he voiced the question that weighed on both his and Issha’s minds. “Canon barely remembers living anywhere else. The girls have their friends, their activities here. How do we explain to them that we might have to leave all this behind?”

The word “leave” hit Canon like a punch to the stomach. Tears welled in his eyes, though he couldn’t fully understand why. If Daddy was talking about leaving, did that mean Daddy might leave them too?

The previous week, Pastor James Wilson had visited the family’s church. Canon remembered fragments of his sermon—about God’s callings and following where He leads. But for a child, it only confirmed his worst fears: big changes were coming, and those changes might tear his family apart.

“Do you remember what Pastor James said?” Issha asked gently. “He said sometimes God calls us out of our comfort zone—not to punish us, but to bless us in ways we can’t imagine.”

Steph nodded but his eyes revealed the struggle within. “It’s easy to have faith when the path is clear. But when you’re choosing between two good options—family and career, calling and responsibility—it’s hard to hear God’s voice through the noise.”

Robert Kim, Steph’s agent, had called earlier with more media speculation, pushing for a quick decision. But Steph and Issha had agreed weeks ago: no decisions would be made under pressure or public expectation. They would seek God’s will on their knees.

“Maybe we should pray about it now,” Issha suggested, reaching for Steph’s hand.

They knelt in the living room, the television still murmuring rumors about their future.

“Heavenly Father,” Steph began, his voice vulnerable and raw. “We are confused. We seek Your guidance. Help us know what to do next.”

Upstairs, Canon watched. He had seen his parents pray before—when Grandma was sick, when Daddy was injured, when life was hard. If they were praying now, it meant something serious was happening.

“God, we know You have plans for us,” Issha continued. “Plans for good, not evil, to give us hope and a future. Help us trust even when we can’t see the way.”

Steph’s voice cracked as he added, “Help us make decisions that honor You and are best for our family—even if it means leaving familiar things behind.”

The word “leave” echoed in Canon’s mind like a death knell. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks as he wrestled with the terrible possibility that Daddy really might go away.

When Steph and Issha finished praying and stood, Canon quickly climbed the stairs and ran to his room, his small heart pounding with fear. He threw himself on his bed, clutching his warrior’s teddy bear, whispering a prayer of his own: “Jesus, please don’t let Daddy go away. Please make him stay with me.”

That night, while Steph and Issha slept fitfully in the next room, Canon lay awake staring at the ceiling. His childish mind struggled to process the complex adult world threatening the only life he’d ever known. Somewhere between fear and exhaustion, a terrible question took root: If Daddy was talking about leaving the Warriors, did that mean Daddy could also leave the family?

Great truths about faith often emerge not in moments of certainty but when we are forced to trust beyond our understanding. When circumstances humble us and reveal our desperate need for divine guidance—even when our decisions have unintended consequences for those we love most.

The days following that night brought no peace. Pressure mounted—from media, fans, the Warriors organization, and other teams. But most devastatingly, it came from within their home, where a small boy silently interpreted every conversation, every glance, every tense moment as proof that his worst fear was about to come true.

Canon became a shadow, following Steph everywhere with a clingy intensity that was both touching and alarming.

When Steph prepared to go to the gym one morning, Canon appeared with his own sneakers, hoping to join. When Steph took business calls, Canon sat nearby, trying to decipher words beyond his understanding but feeding his growing anxiety.

“Does Daddy have to go to work today?” Canon asked one Thursday morning, gripping Steph’s pant leg tightly.

Steph knelt to meet his son’s eyes, noticing for the first time the dark circles under Canon’s eyes—signs of sleepless nights.

“Yes, little one. Daddy has practice today, but I’ll be home for dinner like always.”

“Do you promise?” Canon’s voice held an urgency that tightened Steph’s heart.

“I promise,” Steph said, kissing Canon’s forehead. “Daddy always comes home to you and your sisters.”

But as Steph left, Canon ran to the living room window, pressing his face against the glass, watching until his father’s car disappeared. It was a ritual he’d started three days earlier—a small anchor of security in a suddenly unstable world.

Issha noticed Canon’s clinginess as she moved around the kitchen. He followed her like a shadow, as if memorizing every moment.

“Canon, sweetheart,” she said gently one afternoon, noticing his unusual silence. “Do you want to help me make cookies? We can make those chocolate chip ones you love.”

Canon nodded, but his usual enthusiasm was muted.

As they mixed dough side by side, Canon suddenly asked, his voice small and hesitant, “Mommy, when people pray a lot about something, does that mean it’s bad?”

The question hit Issha like a punch. She stopped stirring, knelt beside him, and said softly, “No, baby. Sometimes we pray because we’re grateful. Sometimes because we need help with hard decisions. Prayer is talking to God about what’s in our hearts.”

“But you’ve been praying a lot,” Canon observed, frowning. “And when you pray, you look sad.”

How could a five-year-old be so perceptive? Issha’s heart ached as she realized Canon’s innocent observations were feeding his fears rather than comforting him.

“Sometimes adults worry about big decisions,” she said, hugging him close. “But that doesn’t mean something bad will happen. It means we want to do the right thing.”

“What kind of decisions?” Canon asked, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

Issha hesitated. “Daddy is thinking about some changes at work. But whatever happens, our family will stay together.”

The word “changes” only confirmed Canon’s fears. In his experience, changes meant loss, endings, and insecurity.

That afternoon, while Issha spoke with her best friend Diana Thompson on the phone, Canon hid behind the sofa, overhearing fragments of their conversation.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Issha said, exhausted. “Steph is being pulled in so many directions. No matter what we choose, someone will get hurt.”

“Have you prayed about it?” Diana asked.

“Constantly,” Issha replied. “But sometimes it feels like the more we pray, the more confused we get. It’s like God is silent when we need Him most.”

Canon heard the words “don’t know what to do” and “someone is going to get hurt.” His small world tilted further into chaos.

“Maybe you should talk to Pastor Martinez,” Diana suggested. “Sometimes we need outside wisdom.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Issha admitted, “but I worry about how this affects the kids. Canon’s been clingy, but he won’t talk about what’s wrong.”

If Issha had known Canon was listening to every word, interpreting her concern as confirmation of his fears, she would have understood his anxious shadow behavior immediately.

That night at dinner, Canon asked questions that should have alerted his parents to his inner turmoil but were mistaken for childish curiosity.

“Daddy,” Canon asked, playing with his food, “if you had to work very far away, would you visit us every day?”

Steph and Issha exchanged looks. “Why do you ask that, buddy?” Steph gently probed.

“Just wondering,” Canon said, but his voice carried a seriousness beyond his years.

“Daddy will always be here for you,” Steph assured him, unaware that his words didn’t answer the question Canon really wanted answered.

“But what if you had to go to another team very far away?” Canon pressed, anxiety leaking through.

During dinner, a call came from Anthony Jiang, the Warriors assistant coach. Steph spoke briefly about “considering options” and “needing to make a decision soon.” To Canon, this confirmed the changes were real.

Later, while Steph read Canon a Bible story, the boy asked, “Jesus never goes away, right?”

“That’s right, little one,” Steph smiled. “Jesus promised He’d never leave us.”

“And you never go away either, right?” Canon’s big eyes searched his father’s face.

“Of course not,” Steph kissed his forehead. “Daddy will always be here for you.”

But as Steph turned off the light, Canon lay awake, wrestling with the contradiction between his father’s promise and the talks of leaving and going away.

A terrible question began to grow inside him—too big for a five-year-old to bear alone.

Three floors below, Steph and Issha knelt in prayer again, unaware their son was upstairs battling fears they hadn’t seen coming.

Great truths about protecting childhood innocence remind us that children interpret adult words without context, often filling gaps with frightening imaginings. Efforts to shield them can unintentionally create deeper fears.

One Saturday afternoon, as the family went about their routine, Canon gathered courage to ask the question that had haunted him.

Steph’s phone rang repeatedly—calls from his agent, Warriors executives, journalists—all pressing for a decision.

Canon, who had hidden to listen, felt the evidence mounting that big changes were imminent.

Issha prepared her famous curry chicken, praying silently for wisdom and peace.

Steph, in the garage organizing basketballs, was distracted by a difficult conversation with the Warriors general manager.

Canon appeared at the garage doorway, hesitating like he stood on an emotional precipice.

“Daddy,” he said softly, “can I ask you something?”

Steph crouched to meet his son’s eyes, sensing the gravity.

“Are you going away too?” Canon’s voice trembled, carrying days of fear and sleepless nights.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Steph felt as if punched in the stomach—not just by the question, but by the realization that they had failed to protect their son.

“Are you going away like the other daddies?” Canon sobbed.

“Leaving and not coming back?” Tears streamed down his face.

Steph’s world tilted. Canon had connected the dots between career talks and his own deepest fears.

“Baby, no,” Steph whispered, voice breaking. “Daddy is never going away from you.”

But Canon’s tears only grew. “You keep talking about going away. You and Mommy keep praying and crying and talking about leaving.”

Issha appeared, drawn by maternal instinct. She found Steph kneeling beside a sobbing Canon.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Canon thinks I’m going away,” Steph explained, anguish in his voice. “He thinks when we talk about leaving the Warriors, it means I’m going to leave the family.”

The truth hit Issha like an avalanche. Three days of clinginess, strange questions, restless nights—all made sense.

They had tried to protect the kids from the details but hadn’t realized Canon had created a terrifying narrative in his mind.

“Oh, my baby,” Issha whispered, holding Canon close. “Daddy is never going away. Never, ever.”

But Canon’s sobs continued. “Jason from school said his daddy went away and never came back. Emily said her daddy went to another place and now she only sees him sometimes.”

Steph and Issha exchanged a look, understanding how divorce stories from school friends had mixed with their own talks about career changes to create a perfect storm of fear.

Issha wiped her tears and gently explained, “When Daddy talks about leaving the Warriors, he means his job. But our family—Daddy, Mommy, you, your sisters—that never changes.”

“But what if work is more important than me?” Canon’s question cut deep.

Steph pulled him close. “Look at me, Canon. There’s nothing more important to Daddy than you, your sisters, and Mommy. Nothing. Not basketball, not money, not fame. Our family is Daddy’s whole world.”

“Then why do you keep talking about going away?” Canon asked, confusion breaking their hearts.

“Sometimes adults use confusing words,” Issha admitted. “We should have explained better instead of letting you imagine alone.”

Steph made a solemn promise. “No matter where Daddy works or what team he plays for, our family will always stay together. Always. And if we move, we move as one.”

“Do you promise?” Canon asked, hope flickering.

“I promise before God,” Steph said.

In that moment, surrounded by love and clarity, Steph and Issha finally found the peace they had sought for weeks.

Sometimes clarity comes through the smallest voices, reminding us that love and family must come first.

Issha and Steph apologized for not seeing Canon’s fears sooner and promised to always listen.

They knelt together to pray, thanking God for using their son to realign their priorities.

Canon added his own prayer, simple and pure: “Jesus, thank you for making Daddy stay and help me not be afraid.”

The peace that followed was profound.

Steph called his agent, Tyler Brooks, and declared his decision: “I’m staying with the Warriors. My family needs stability. This is our home.”

Canon heard every word and smiled genuinely for the first time in days.

That night, the tension lifted. The girls noticed the change, sensing a new closeness in the family.

At church weeks later, Pastor Martinez shared their story as a lesson to the congregation: sometimes God uses the simplest questions to answer our hardest prayers.

Canon stood proudly, knowing his scary question had helped his family find peace and could help others too.

Back home, Canon offered Steph his warrior’s teddy bear—a symbol of the journey they had traveled together.

Steph accepted it with reverence, knowing it represented healing and renewed trust.

Six months later, when asked about his decision to stay, Steph said, “The most important decisions aren’t made in boardrooms or agent offices. They’re made in garages with your children. Real success isn’t measured by achievements or money but by how secure the people you love feel in your love.”

In that home in Atherton, Canon grew up knowing his question, “Are you going away too?” was not just a fear but a gift—a divine reminder of what truly matters: unconditional love, family, and faith that never abandons.