Our Olek is six years old now.

And yet, when I close my eyes, I can still see the day he was born as if it were yesterday.

The moment they placed him in my arms, everything else disappeared — the noise, the exhaustion, the fear. All that mattered was that tiny heartbeat against my chest, that perfect little face that made the whole world feel right.

But happiness, as we soon learned, can be fragile.

It didn’t take long for doctors to tell us that something wasn’t right.
That our baby’s life — and ours — would never follow the easy, ordinary path we once imagined.

From his very first days, Olek has been fighting battles most adults will never face.
He was diagnosed with asthma, reduced muscle tone, a heart defect (a bicuspid aortic valve), and

agenesis of the left kidney — meaning he was born with only one.

Each word felt like a thunderclap, each diagnosis another layer of fear added to our hearts.
We told ourselves we would be strong, but the truth is, nothing prepares you for this.

Since then, Olek’s life — and ours — has revolved around hospitals, specialists, and therapy rooms.
What should have been years filled with carefree play and discovery have instead been marked by medical charts, appointments, and waiting rooms that smell of antiseptic and hope.

We’ve lost count of the times we’ve sat across from doctors, trying to absorb every word, every instruction, every possibility — good or bad.
We’ve learned to carry folders full of test results wherever we go. We’ve memorized the schedules for medications, exercises, and emergency procedures.

This has become our normal.

But amid all the medical terms and uncertainty, there is our little boy — gentle, bright, and endlessly brave.

For as long as we can remember, Olek struggled to speak.

He wanted to. You could see it in the way his lips moved, in the frustration in his eyes when the words wouldn’t come.

At first, we thought it was simply developmental delay — that with time and therapy, his speech would blossom like every other child’s.

But the words never came.
And we could feel his frustration growing, day by day, as he tried to make himself understood in a world that didn’t seem to hear him.

Then, just a few months ago, we finally got the answer.

The cause of all his struggles wasn’t just a speech delay.
It was something much deeper — a cleft palate

, a congenital defect that had gone unnoticed for years. 

When the doctor explained it, a strange mix of emotions swept over us. Relief, because we finally had an answer. Pain, because our son had been struggling all this time without anyone realizing why.

He’s since undergone surgery to repair the defect — a huge step forward.
But as the doctors warned us, the operation was just the beginning.

Now comes the long road of rehabilitation, daily speech therapy, breathing exercises, and neurological work to help his body and mind learn what most children do naturally.

And it will take time — a lot of time.

Every morning, our house fills with the quiet rhythm of his routines: stretching, vocal exercises, small steps toward a voice that’s been waiting to emerge for six long years.

His speech therapist often says that Olek has a beautiful spark — that behind his silence lives a mind eager to express, to connect, to tell his story.
And we believe that with all our hearts.

When we watch him focus during therapy, his small hands clenched into determination, it’s impossible not to cry.
He tries so hard. He listens carefully.
And when a new sound finally escapes his lips — imperfect but real — it feels like the universe itself pauses to celebrate.

Those sounds, those fragments of words, are proof that progress is possible.
They are tiny miracles that carry enormous weight.

But miracles, we’ve learned, don’t come easy — or cheap.

Every therapy session, every medical consultation, every specialized visit adds up.
We’ve given everything we have, but it’s never enough.

His rehabilitation must continue daily — consistency is key. A missed session means regression, and Olek has already fought too hard to lose what he’s gained.

We dream of the day when he’ll be able to speak freely — to tell us what he feels, what he dreams about, what makes him happy or sad.
We dream of hearing him say, “I love you, Mama,” or “Goodnight, Dad,” in a clear voice instead of a whisper or a sign.

It’s a dream that feels within reach, but only if we can keep his therapy going.

Financially, though, it’s overwhelming.
Between travel costs, private specialists, medications, and tests, our resources have nearly disappeared.
We try to save wherever we can, but some things simply can’t be delayed — not when they mean progress, not when they mean hope.

And that’s why we’ve learned the hardest lesson of all: that sometimes love means asking for help.

So we are reaching out — humbly, sincerely — to anyone who might read these words and feel even a spark of compassion for our son.

We’re not asking for much.
Every small donation, every shared message, every kind thought brings us closer to giving Olek what he needs most — a chance.

A chance to live without constant fear for his heart.
A chance to breathe freely despite his asthma.
A chance to speak — to finally make the world hear his voice.

Olek is still so young, but his courage humbles us every day.
Even after the surgeries, even on the hardest days when therapy leaves him tired and teary-eyed, he still smiles.

Sometimes he brings us his toys and points to them, making little sounds that mean “play with me.”
Sometimes he just sits quietly beside us, resting his head on our shoulders — no words, but all the love in the world.

And sometimes, when he manages to say even one simple syllable clearly, he beams with pride, as if to say, “See, I can do it.”

That’s what keeps us going.
That’s why we fight.

Because behind every diagnosis, every tube, every therapy session, there’s a boy who just wants to be heard.

We know there’s still a long road ahead — full of challenges, surgeries, therapies, and fears.
But we also know we’re not alone.

So many people have already stood beside us, supported us, believed in Olek when things felt impossible.
To each of you, we say: thank you.

You’ve reminded us that kindness still exists in this world.
That even strangers can become part of a family’s fight for hope.

And if you’re reading this for the first time — we ask only this: stay with us.

Help us give our son the voice he deserves.
Help us make sure that one day soon, when he says his first full sentence, it will be heard not just by us, but by everyone who helped make it possible.

Because every child deserves to be heard.
And Olek — our brave, beautiful boy — has been waiting far too long to speak his heart.