For a long time,s. 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.
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,s, 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 via 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.
A day when the three of us would just pack our bags and fly to Paris together.
But I knew something he didn’t know.
That “someday” might never come.
That night I called his doctor.
“I want to take Leo to Paris.”
There were a few seconds of silence.s,
Then he asked:
“How does it feel today?”
“Relatively well.”
The doctor paused.
“If your state allows you to travel and this is something you want to do… don’t expect too much.”
Those four words were enough.
Don’t wait too long.
The next morning, I started organizing everything.
Airline tickets.
A hotel.
Medical documents.
Everything we could need during the trip.
I didn’t even want to think about money.
The only thing I could imagine was Leo’s face when he saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time.
And then I did something I didn’t want to do.
I texted Daniel.
Since he had left, he had barely contacted us.
I just sent him a message:
“Leo wrote a letter to Santa Claus. He wants to see the Eiffel Tower. We’re going to Paris. If you want to be there for your son, now is the time.”
He read it.
He didn’t answer.
When I told Leo we were going to take a little trip, his eyes lit up.
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He held out until we were already on the plane.
“Mom, at least tell me the country.”
I smiled.
“France.”
Leo stared at me for a few seconds.
“France?”
Then, suddenly, all his expression changed.
“Wait… Paris?”
I nodded.
He surrounded me with his arms as hard as he could.
Then, suddenly, he remained silent.
“What about Dad?”
I wasn’t prepared for that question.
“I don’t know, Leo.”
He looked out the window of the plane for several seconds.
Then he whispered:
“Nothing happens. The important thing is that you come with me.”
I could hardly hold back the tears.
The next day, we were in Paris.
When the Eiffel Tower finally appeared in the distance, I was not looking at the tower.
I was looking at Leo.
He stopped.
He raised his head.
And for a long time he didn’t say anything.
“I read?”
Finally, he smiled.
“Mom… is actually much bigger than I thought.”
I laughed.
He also laughs.
And for the first time in months, when I looked at his face, I didn’t see a hospital.
I didn’t see doctors.
I didn’t see test results.
I only saw my son.
I wanted us to take a selfie.
“Just you and me, Mom.”
He turned his head against mine.
I picked up the phone.
The Eiffel Tower stood behind us.
We both smiled.s.
I took the picture.
At that very moment, my phone vibrated.
A message.
I looked at the screen.
Daniel.
I felt my heart stop.
I opened it.
There were only three words.
“I’m in Paris.”
Leo noticed my expression.
“Mom, what happened?”
I didn’t have time to respond.
Suddenly, he looked over my shoulder.
His eyes wide opened.
“Dad?”
I turned around.
Daniel was walking toward us in the crowd.
I was crying.
Leo didn’t hesitate.
He ran straight to him.
Daniel fell to his knees and surrounded our son with his arms.
I stayed several steps away.
I hadn’t forgiven him yet.
I hadn’t forgotten that he had left when we needed him most.
But at the time, my anger seemed smaller than what I was seeing in front of me.
Leo had his arms around his father and repeated:
“I knew you would come.”
Daniel could only repeat:
“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”
That day, the three of us walked together in Paris.
No one talked about the disease.
No one talked about the weather.
That night, back at the hotel, Leo was already in bed when he called me.
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Do you know what I’m going to ask Santa next year?”
My whole body was still.
“What?”
He smiled.
“Let the three of us come back here again.”
For a moment, I turned to the window so I wouldn’t see my eyes.
Because my son was talking about next year.
And I didn’t know how long we had been granted.
Then I came back to him, kissed his forehead and said,
“Then, starting tomorrow, we’ll have to gather as many memories as we can.”
That photograph was taken that day.
For most people, it is simply a beautiful photo of a mother and her son in front of the Eiffel Tower.
For me, it’s something completely different.
It’s the day I finally understood something.
We spent our whole lives saying:
“Someday we will do it.”
“We will go later.”
“There will be time.”
But no one has ever promised us that “later.”
Sometimes the most important day is today.
