For 6months, my eight-year-old son kept drawing the same man tall, smiling, always wearing a bright red hat. I thought it was just a bedtime story that had stuck in his imagination. Until the morning, someone knocked on our door.
My name is Elena Morales, and my son Mateo has been a fighter since the day he was born. He arrived eight weeks early, tiny and fragile, barely heavier than a bag of sugar. The doctors rushed him straight into the NICU, and I remember standing outside the glass, feeling completely useless. Machines breathed for him, and wires monitored him.
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