Misha came to us like a miracle. For ten long years, we dreamed of this moment, we prayed and hoped, imagining the warmth, the laughter, and the joy a child could bring into our lives. When he was finally born, it felt as if life itself had answered all our prayers, placing into our arms a small, fragile bundle that seemed to carry the light of the world.

I remember holding him on that first day, afraid to blink, afraid that a single second away from him could erase all the hope we had built in our hearts. He was perfect — tiny hands, soft skin, a smile that could melt the heaviest sorrow. In those early days, our home felt whole, like the pages of a photograph where happiness seemed effortless and nothing bad could ever touch us.

For two years, life felt normal, quiet, and blissful. Misha laughed, played, and discovered the world with the unguarded joy only a small child can have. Every day was a celebration of his life, and we allowed ourselves to forget the long wait, the uncertainty, the years we spent wishing for this very moment.

Then, small changes began to creep into our lives. Minor illnesses after kindergarten, a fever that refused to disappear, visits to doctors that offered no answers beyond vague reassurances. “It happens. He’ll grow out of it,” they said. But our instincts told us something was wrong.

Finally, my husband urged me, “Go get an ultrasound. Check everything.” I remember the cold, sterile room, the sound of the machine, and the doctor’s face, which avoided ours. The silence after his words stretched unbearably long, until finally he spoke the words that shattered everything: a tumor.

I held Misha’s hand, feeling the foundation of our world collapse beneath me. My husband was far away, and all I wanted was to scream into the sky so someone, somewhere, could hear our despair. But I stayed quiet, keeping Misha close, watching him smile as if nothing had changed, while inside my heart was breaking with every beat.

What followed were two years of hell. Chemotherapy, radiation therapy, surgeries that seemed endless, anesthesias that became a blur, a bone marrow transplant. Nights spent watching his tiny chest rise and fall, days when he could barely swallow water, and yet, through it all, Misha became our strength, whispering to us, “Mom, everything will be fine,” as if he were protecting us instead of the other way around.

We survived that nightmare together. When he was finally discharged, relief washed over us like a warm wave for the first time in two years. Misha laughed, ran, played, and dreamed about kindergarten again. He believed his life had returned, and for a moment, so did we.

But hope can be fragile. In September, test results showed troubling changes, subtle at first. By November, the doctors delivered news that no parent should ever hear: the tumor was growing again. Quietly, stealthily, like a shadow that had never left, it returned.

We watch Misha play, his laughter filling the air, his lively eyes sparkling with curiosity, and we know that inside him, darkness is returning. He builds block towers, jumps, runs, and dreams, unaware of the shadow threatening his life. Meanwhile, we live in constant fear, a fear that never leaves, not for a second, that gnaws at every quiet moment, every smile, every breath.

We cannot risk his life any longer. Treatments in Russia have failed twice, and now the only chance lies in Israel, where specialists are prepared to fight for him. The total cost of the treatment is 1,176,000 rubles — an amount far beyond our reach. We are an ordinary family, unable to bear such an expense, yet powerless to watch our child fade before our eyes.

We ask, we beg, we plead with anyone who can hear us. Help us save Misha, the child we waited ten years to hold, the boy who so desperately wants to live, to learn, to run, to grow, to laugh, to be a part of this world. Every donation, every gesture of support, is a step closer to keeping him with us. Please… help save our son. Every moment, every heartbeat, every smile matters.