For a long time, I couldn’t look at this photograph.
Every time people saw her, she said,
“What a beautiful photo. They both look very happy.”
I just smiled.
Because they had no idea what had happened in our lives just weeks before that picture was taken.
My name is Anna.
My son's name is Leo.
When Leo was born, I thought the hardest time of my life was already behind me.
I was wrong.
I was still very young when the doctors sat my husband and me and uttered that word that no father is prepared to hear.
Cancer.
I couldn't even cry.
I just stared at the doctor.
My husband, Daniel, was sitting next to me, squeezing my hand.
Then the doctor said a phrase that we both cling to immediately.
“There are good treatment options.”
From that day on, our whole life revolved around a single sentence:
Leo's gonna get better.
Months have passed.
Then the years.
Hospitals, tests, waiting rooms, good news, bad news.
Daniel used to sit by Leo's bed and say,
“When all this is over, all three of us will go to Paris.”
“Why Paris?” I asked.
He smiled.
“Because my son is going to see the Eiffel Tower with his own eyes.”
Over the years, there were periods when we really believed the worst was left behind.
Leo started school.
He made friends.
He loved football.
A few weeks before Christmas, I was already beginning to make a long list of the gifts I wanted to ask Santa Claus.
For the first time in years, we finally started to feel like a normal family.
Until one afternoon, Leo came back from school and said,
“Mom, my leg hurts.”
At first I thought he had fallen or hurt himself while playing.
But the pain did not disappear.
More evidence followed.
One morning, the doctor called.
His first words were:
“Anna, I would like you and your husband to come together.”
My heart shrank even before I said anything else.
Daniel drove all the way to the hospital without saying a word.
In the doctor's office, we learned that Leo had been diagnosed with Ewing's sarcoma.
I immediately asked:
“All right. When do we start treatment?”
The doctor was silent.
The evidence showed that the disease had already spread.
Over the next few months, they tried everything that still made sense from a medical standpoint.
But one day we were called back to the hospital.
This time there were three doctors in the room.
I'll never forget their faces.
“We can no longer talk about a treatment whose goal is complete healing,” one of them said quietly.
I looked at Daniel.
He lowered his head.
Then I asked the question I had been so afraid to ask.
“How long do we have left?”
No one gave us an exact figure.
They explained that no one could predict it accurately.
But time could be very limited.
Leo didn't know about this.
I knew he was sick.
But he did not understand the extent to which the situation had become serious.
We wanted him to remain a child for as long as possible.
That night, Daniel sat for hours by Leo's bed, watching him sleep.
Then he left the room and said,
“I can’t do this.”
“What do you mean?”
He started crying.
“I can’t wake up every morning wondering if we’re running out of time. I can’t smile in front of him and pretend that everything is normal.”
I thought it was just crumbling under pressure.
I hugged him.
But the next morning, his suitcase was by the front door.
“Daniel?”
He couldn't look me in the eye.
“I’m sorry.”
And then he left.
I was alone.
I told Leo that his father had to leave for a few days.
He just asked one question.
“Will Dad come back for Christmas?”
I swallowed saliva with difficulty.
“I hope so.”
In December, I put a small Christmas tree in our living room.
One night, Leo sat down at the table and started writing something.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
He immediately covered the paper with his hand.
“A letter to Santa.”
I smiled.
“What do you want this year?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
He folded the letter, put it in an envelope and looked at me very seriously.
“Mom, don’t read it.”
“I promise you.”
Two days later, Leo was in the hospital for another exam.
I was cleaning the table at home when the envelope accidentally fell to the ground.
It opened.
I crouched down to close it again.
Then my eyes stopped in the first sentence.
“Dear Santa Claus, this year I don’t need any toys...”
I don't know why, but I kept reading.
And when I got to the next lines, my hands started to shake.
I sat right there on the kitchen floor.
Because my son had asked for something that, years ago, only his father and I had spoken about.
And for the first time I realized that I no longer had the right to waste a single day.
The story takes an even more unexpected turn from here. You can read Part 2 through the link in the comments 👇!!️
The letter said:
“Dear Santa, I don’t need any toys this year. I've got enough stuff.
I just want one thing.
Dad always said that when he was completely healed, the three of us would go to Paris.
I want to see the Eiffel Tower at least once.
If it costs too much, then please don’t bring me any other gifts.”
I sat on the kitchen floor holding that letter, barely able to breathe.
But the most painful thing was not even the Eiffel Tower.
It was this phrase:
“When you are fully healed.”
My son still thought he had time.
I thought there would come a day when the hospital visits would end.
A day when his father would come home.
Un día en que los tres simplemente haríamos las maletas y volaríamos juntos a París.
Pero yo sabía algo que él no sabía.
Que ese “algún día” quizá nunca llegaría.
Aquella noche llamé a su médico.
“Quiero llevar a Leo a París.”
Hubo unos segundos de silencio.
Entonces preguntó:
“¿Cómo se siente hoy?”
“Relativamente bien.”
El médico hizo una pausa.
“Si su estado le permite viajar y esto es algo que quiere hacer… no espere demasiado.”
Esas cuatro palabras fueron suficientes.
No espere demasiado.
A la mañana siguiente, empecé a organizarlo todo.
Billetes de avión.
Un hotel.
Documentos médicos.
Todo lo que pudiéramos necesitar durante el viaje.
Ni siquiera quería pensar en el dinero.
