We arrived in Istanbul a day earlier, before Emmanuel and Patrik landed.
This was Emmanuel’s first journey outside Rwanda, his first time on an airplane, his first step into a world completely unknown to him. I knew it would be a shock — the noise, the crowds, the language — and I wanted to be there at the airport, to meet him the moment he arrived, to calm his heart. I wanted him to see a familiar face, because I am “his.”

In the overwhelming crowd at the airport, I spotted him immediately. He was wearing a white woolen hat. When he saw me, he ran straight into my arms, the way children do when they are frightened but finally feel safe. In that moment, all the distance, fear, and uncertainty seemed to disappear.

From the airport, we went directly to the hospital. There was no time to rest. Tests, scans, blood work — a long list of procedures that do not need naming, but each one carried its own weight. Emmanuel does not speak English, and that made everything harder. That is why Patrik stayed with him every single day, translating every word, explaining every step, making sure Emmanuel was never alone.

After the surgery, Emmanuel was too afraid to open his eyes or move. The stress of the new environment, the hospital, the pain, and the fear all came together at once. For a day and a half, he remained silent — withdrawn, distant, without a single word. Emmanuel does not speak English, and in that silence, worry grew heavier with every passing hour.

Only after I whispered one single sentence to him — through Patrik — did something change. He found the strength to stand up and speak immediately. What that sentence was will remain our secret. But the doctors stood in disbelief, watching a boy who moments before had been unreachable take his first steps forward.

On Saturday, Emmanuel was brought to our accommodation. I was clumsy, frightened, soaked from head to toe in stress as I helped him out of the car and into the elevator. Everything felt fragile — one wrong movement, one wrong word.

Inside the elevator, Emmanuel leaned against me and hugged me tightly. Then, quietly and clearly, in perfect English, he said:
“Thank you, mother. I love you.”

I am still gathering the pieces of myself. Perhaps one day I will put them back together. But I know this much: love heals in ways that medicine alone never can.