“He Had Only Months to Live… and Donated His Toys to the Hospital for Other Children.”
When the doctor gave the diagnosis, I felt the world stop. Three months—maybe four if we were lucky. I turned to Mateo, my six-year-old, who was playing on the hospital floor with his toy cars, unaware of the words that had just shattered my heart.
“Mom, why are you crying?” he asked, looking up at me with those big, bright eyes.
“It’s nothing, sweetheart… something just got in my eye,” I replied, trying to hold back the tears.
The following days were a whirlwind of medicines, treatments, and sleepless nights. Yet Mateo—my little warrior—faced it all with a courage that left me speechless.
One afternoon, while I was tidying up his toys, he surprised me with a question that pierced my soul.
“Mommy, are there kids here who don’t have any toys?”
“Yes, darling, some don’t have as many as you do.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, gently stroking his favorite dinosaur—the one that had been with him since he was three.
“Then I want them to play with mine. I don’t want them to be sad.”
“But, honey, they’re yours…”
“I know,” he interrupted me with a smile that filled the room with light. “But if I go with the angels, other kids will need company. Will you help me?”
Tears streamed down my face. At his young age, he understood what takes many adults a lifetime to learn: love grows when it’s shared.
We spent the afternoon packing. Every toy carried a story.
“This red car is fast. Tell the kid who gets it that he can fly if he pushes it hard enough.”
“And this doll’s name is Luna—she protects you from nightmares. She should go to a girl who’s afraid.”
When he reached his dinosaur, he paused.
“This one’s special. But I still want to give it away. Just write a letter. Tell them his name is Rex, and he always protects brave kids.”
With my voice trembling, I wrote what he dictated. At the end, he added:
“I hope you’re not scared. Rex and I will be watching over you from where we are.”
On the day of the delivery, Mateo insisted on handing them out one by one in the pediatric ward. I watched as the faces of the other children lit up with every gift. That night, lying in my lap, he said,
“Now they’ll be able to play. Did I do good, Mommy?”
“You did something wonderful, my hero.”
Two weeks later, on a quiet April morning, Mateo passed away. But his toys kept spreading smiles.
Months later, I received a letter from the doctor:
“Mateo’s toys have brought joy to more than fifty children. His story inspired other families—three more have followed his example. Your son was not only brave; he taught us the true meaning of generosity.”
That night I looked up at the sky and whispered,
“Thank you, my son, for teaching me that even in darkness, one can still be a light for others.”
And I swear, one star shone brighter than ever, as if Mateo were telling me: It was worth it.
