A Child of Strength and Dreams
My son is seven years old. Since the day he was born, his life has been tied to a wheelchair. The doctors told us, with cold certainty: “He will never walk.”
For most parents, those words would have felt like a sentence, but for my boy, they were nothing more than background noise. He grew up not as a victim of his condition, but as a warrior of hope.
He learned faster than most children. He devoured books, asked endless questions, and amazed his teachers with the brightness of his mind. But behind that brilliance lived a dream that he carried quietly in his heart.
He wanted to run.
Not just walk—to run. To feel the wind against his face, to hear the ground thud beneath his own feet, to chase the horizon like the characters in his books. He knew it was impossible. And yet… every night, before falling asleep, I sometimes caught him whispering to himself, almost like a vow:
— “One day, I’ll run.”
A Father’s Quiet Admiration
I’ll confess something: sometimes, I wished I could borrow his heart.
Because despite everything he lacked, my son had something that most adults spend their whole lives searching for—an unshakable belief in joy. He woke up every morning with a smile, asked questions as if the world was full of treasures waiting to be found, and loved life with a passion that humbled me.
Meanwhile, I, the parent who was supposed to be strong, often struggled with despair. I worried about his future, about what would happen when I was no longer there to push his chair, to guide his steps that would never come. But he never seemed afraid.
It was as if he knew something I didn’t.
The Day of the Angel
One crisp autumn afternoon, we took a walk through town. The trees painted the sidewalks gold, the air was sharp with the smell of fallen leaves.
We passed an old church, its stone walls worn by centuries. In the courtyard stood a statue of an angel—tall, majestic, its wings spread wide as if embracing heaven itself.
My son stopped suddenly.
— “Dad, wait,” he whispered.
I leaned over his chair. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he folded his small hands together, closed his eyes, and began to pray. His voice trembled, but every syllable was filled with raw sincerity:
— “I want to walk. Please give me strength. I promise I’ll always do good. I’ll be kind, and I’ll never stop trying.”
The world around me seemed to pause. The sound of leaves rustling, the faint toll of the church bell, even my own heartbeat—all faded into silence.
My throat tightened. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stood there, watching my little boy pour his soul into words so pure they seemed to touch the very sky.
When he opened his eyes, he looked at me with a soft smile, as if nothing unusual had happened.
— “Let’s go, Dad.”
I nodded, forcing a smile, but inside my heart was breaking. I told myself it was just a child’s innocent hope—sweet, but powerless against reality.
What I didn’t know then was that this small moment would echo louder than anything else in our lives.
