My six-year-old daughter made a single, straightforward wish—to see the ocean—the day the doctors informed me that she had less than a year to live.
I said I would figure something out. However, when we eventually arrived, the hotel manager came on our door with a box that completely altered my perception.
That afternoon, the pediatric oncology ward’s clean walls felt cooler than normal.
Staring at the pale floor tiles, I sat still in a hard plastic chair.
Sophie was chuckling quietly down the corridor at something her grandfather had said.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on how the sound broke me.
The physician sank onto the chair on the other side of me.
Her chart felt like a hundred pounds as he cradled it to his chest.
The physician sank onto the chair on the other side of me.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “This is incredibly hard to say, but treatment can only slow the inevitable. She may have less than a year left.”
The world appeared to come to a halt.
“Is there anything,” I said in a whisper at last. “Anything at all we haven’t tried?”
“We’re doing everything we can. I promise you that.”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
“Anything at all we haven’t tried?”
My six-year-old daughter was eluding me.
My prayers didn’t appear to be powerful enough to keep her.
Grandpa sat next to Sophie’s bed that night.
Sophie’s picture book about Moana rested on his knee.
He read her stories about the sea a lot.
“Again, Grandpa,” Sophie whispered, pulling at his sleeve. “The part where Moana sails across the ocean.”
He read her stories about the sea a lot.
“You just want to hear the good part.”
“The ocean part is the best part.”
He laughed.
Then he made a fresh start.
I watched them from the doorway.
To keep them from hearing me cry, I covered my lips with my palm.
He made a fresh start.
My father discovered me in the corridor after Sophie had fallen asleep with her teddy rabbit nestled beneath her chin.
“She’s a fighter, that one,” he remarked.
“She shouldn’t have to be.”
He gave me a shoulder squeeze.
We listened to the beeping monitors that had become our life’s soundtrack for a considerable amount of time.
“She’s a fighter, that one,”
“You’re not alone in this,” he remarked. “You know that, right?”
“I know I have you, Dad.”
“You have more than me. You just can’t see it yet.”
I didn’t get what he was saying.
I believed at the time that he was merely saying it to cheer me up.
“You’re not alone in this,”
Sophie clasped my hand and gave me a solemn, large-eyed stare the following morning.
“Mama,” she said. “Grandpa told me the ocean is bigger than a hundred hospitals.”
“It is, sweetheart. It really is.”
“And you can smell it?”
With tears welling up in my eyes, I chuckled and nodded.
“Grandpa said it’s loud, too.”
“And you can smell it?”
She was silent for a while.
She was thinking as hard as a six-year-old.
Then she looked out the window, where between the buildings was a strip of gray sky.
“I wish I could see the ocean myself someday. Just once.”
Behind me, someone cleared their throat.
She was giving it some serious thought.
Dad was at the doorway.
His eyes met mine, but he remained silent.
He made a silent pledge that I was unable to decipher at the time.
I muttered, “We’ll figure something out, baby,” into her hair. “I promise.”
I had no idea how.
I had no idea when.
“I promise.”
All I knew was that my young daughter had requested a tiny portion of the earth.
And I would figure out how to offer it to her.
After Sophie went to sleep that evening, I began researching travel expenses.
“Stop worrying about the money.”
Dad sat alongside me. “I’ll help you pay for it. Even if it’s only for a few days, take her to see the ocean.”
My eyes were flooded with tears.
I began researching the expense of travel.
“Dad, I can’t—”
“You can. She deserves that memory,” he muttered. “Promise me you’ll go.”
“I promise.”
He gave me a shoulder pat and grinned.
If only I had known then why Dad was so willing to cover the cost of the vacation.
A few days later, the call arrived.
“She deserves that memory,”
I was seated by Sophie’s bed.
The voice of Dad’s neighbor came through the receiver when I picked up the phone.
“Honey, you need to sit down. Your father collapsed in the garden.”
My body went numb.
“Is he… please tell me he’s okay.”
“The paramedics tried. They tried everything. I’m so sorry.”
“Is he… please tell me he’s okay.”
I can’t recall ever hanging up.
Sophie leaned down to give me a shoulder tap.
“Mommy, why are you crying?”
My father was reading Moana to her when I turned to face her.
I observed them watching ocean-related YouTube videos together.
I now had to inform her that he had left.
I saw my father when I glanced at her.
At first, Sophie didn’t weep.
She sat there clutching her rabbit.
She then grasped my hand.
“It’s okay, Mommy. Grandpa went to heaven. I’m also going to heaven, and I’ll tell him how much we love him when I see him again.”
For her, I made myself grin.
After that, I broke outside in the corridor.
“It’s okay, Mommy.”
I went home that evening and sat in the dark at the kitchen table.
I gazed at the envelope that Dad had placed in my hands a few days before.
He had saved the money within for months or even years.
There was a yellow sticky note with his unsteady handwriting attached.
For the sea. Don’t argue with me.
“I’ll keep my promise,” I said in a low voice. “For both of you.”
For the sea. Don’t argue with me.
The following morning, I gave the doctor’s office a call.
I requested permission for Sophie to travel for a few days.
“At this stage of her treatment—” the physician said softly.
“Please,” I interrupted him. “My father just died. He paid for this trip so Sophie could see the sea. It’s all she wants before she… We have to go.”
The line was silent for a long time.
The following morning, I gave the doctor’s office a call.
“I understand. I’ll clear her for the flight. But please, keep her medications close and rest as much as you can.”
After hanging up, I started crying.
After that, I completed organizing Dad’s funeral.
Sophie and I took a plane two days after my father was laid to rest.
Every time the clouds parted, Sophie gasped and pressed her nose to the window.
I got on a plane with Sophie.
I gazed at nothing.
It took everything I had to keep myself together for Sophie because my heart was so raw.
Now all I had was her.
I didn’t want my sadness to interfere with her coastal vacation.
At noon, we touched down.
As soon as the doors opened, the sea air assaulted us.
I didn’t want my sadness to interfere with her coastal vacation.
Sophie pulled at my sleeve and squealed.
“Mommy, I can SMELL it! I can smell the ocean! Grandpa was right!”
“I know, baby. I know.”
The beautiful sky and palm trees blurred during the cab trip to the hotel.
I kept reaching for my phone to let my dad know we made it.
The fact that he was gone would then come back to me.
I kept grabbing for my phone.
The woman behind the counter at the hotel gave Sophie a smile as she checked in.
“And who is this beautiful young lady?”
“I’m Sophie. I came to see the ocean.”
“Well, Miss Sophie, we’ve been expecting you.”
I paused because of the way she stated it.
But I was too tired to inquire.
She pointed to the elevator and gave me the room key.
“Well, Miss Sophie, we’ve been expecting you.”
I took Sophie to the beach that afternoon.
She paused at the boardwalk’s edge and gazed out into the expansive blue horizon.
“Mommy,” she muttered. “It’s bigger than in the books, and more beautiful than the videos.”
“It really is.”
She laughed in a way I hadn’t heard in nearly a year as I watched her splash in the shallows.
In my pocket, my phone buzzed.
The note came from the office of her oncologist.
Sophie and I went to the beach.
I gazed at the screen.
Before my brain could process it, I had to read it three times.
This morning, Sophie’s most recent lab results were returned. The illness is advancing more quickly than anticipated. Kindly get in touch with me as soon as you get back.
I watched Sophie pursue a wave and felt the sand change under my feet.
My father was gone.
My kid was dying.
And I would soon be all alone in this planet.
Before my brain could process it, I had to read it three times.
That evening, back in our hotel room, I helped Sophie change into a dry outfit for supper.
A loud knock on the door was heard.
The hotel manager was there in the corridor when I opened it.
He had a big brown box in his hands.
His expression was serious.
“Ma’am,” he murmured. “May I come in for just a moment?”
A loud knock on the door was heard.
“Is something wrong?”
He paused and considered his remarks before responding, “No. Not wrong.” “But there’s something about this trip you don’t know. I was asked to deliver this to you personally, once your daughter had seen the ocean.”
I moved aside to make room for him.
On the bed, Sophie sat up.
She looked at the package with a tilted head.
“But there’s something about this trip you don’t know.”
I asked, “Asked by whom?”
The box was carefully placed on the low table by the window by the hotel manager.
“By a gentleman who called us not too long ago. He mailed the box himself, with very specific written instructions about when to bring it up.”
My heart was thumping in my ears.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
My heart was thumping in my ears.
The manager of the hotel cleared his throat.
“He told me his granddaughter needed to see the ocean, and that when you got here, I was to bring this to your room. But he insisted that Miss Sophie had to see the ocean first.”
I gazed at the box.
“Dad…” I muttered. “What did you do?”
On the bed, Sophie got on her knees.
“Grandpa sent us something?”
Miss Sophie had to see the water first, he urged.
The hotel manager gave her a kind grin.
“He sent you a lot of somethings.”
I drew the box nearer.
Tied with a fancy ribbon, it was made of polished dark wood and appeared heavier than a shoebox.
“I don’t understand,” I replied. “He was planning all along.” He was aware that he would not be able to join us here.
It dawned on me like a freight train.
I drew the box nearer.
I recalled Dad’s adamant insistence on covering the cost of this vacation.
He died of a heart attack, according to the physicians.
Had he been aware that his heart was failing?
Is it possible that he would have concealed something like that from me?
The solution was tied with a ribbon in front of me.
I covered my lips with my hand.
Is it possible that he would have concealed something like that from me?
The hotel manager took a step back in the direction of the door.
“I’ll let you handle it. Ma’am, your father seemed like a decent man. You two must have been deeply loved by him.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
He released himself.
The door closed with a click.
“He must have loved you both very much.”
With the exception of the far-off silence of the sea beyond the window, the room fell silent.
“Am I able to open it?Sophie muttered.
I couldn’t trust my voice, so I nodded.
Sophie padded over in her bare feet after sliding off the bed.
Her tiny fingers touched the ribbon, then pulled away.
“There’s a card here, Mommy.”
“Am I able to open it?”
She showed me a tag that was fastened to the ribbon.
Dad has left a little message there:
For my girls
I used my thumb to trace the letters.
Where his hand must have shaken, a small amount of ink had leaked.
“Mommy,” Sophie whispered, “your hands are shaking.”
For my girls
“I know, baby.”
“Grandpa’s not scary.” She put her palm over mine, just as I had done a hundred times in hospital beds. “It’s okay.”
I let out a sound that was part laughter and half something else.
“No,” I replied. “He’s not.”
With trembling hands, I loosened the ribbon.
She put her hand over mine.
I was surprised at how readily the knot gave.
In a gradual, weary curl, the ribbon slid loose.
Sophie leaned in.
Her breath was rapid and warm on my skin.
I opened the lid.
My breathing completely stopped when I saw what was inside.
In a gradual, weary curl, the ribbon slid loose.
Envelopes filled the box.
I lifted the first envelope, my hands shaking.
Sophie’s name was on it, but I couldn’t identify the handwriting.
Whispering, “Read it to me, Mommy,” Sophie climbed onto my lap.
I swallowed hard when I unfurled the page.
Sophie’s name was on it, but I couldn’t identify the handwriting.
“You are the most courageous girl I have ever encountered, Sophie. You taught me how to be stronger each time you smiled through a needle stick.”
Sophie’s eyes widened.
“Nurse Marcy is that!”
I took out one more envelope.
“Your grin brightened every day in my classroom, Sophie. Kindness is the finest form of courage, as you reminded us all.
“You taught me how to be stronger.”
“Mrs. Lucy, my teacher, said that!Sophie smiled.
Another came from our neighbor on the other side of the hall.
“I appreciate all of the drawings you have snuck under my door. I will cherish each and every one of them.
Then one more.
The hospital janitor wrote, “To my favorite little customer,” “Those lollipops I gave you were never really for cheering you up.” They were to express gratitude for making me feel better.
Dozens more were present.
“They were to thank you for cheering me up.”
“There are so many,” I exhaled.
I went through the remaining envelopes.
For Sophie, I counted about thirty letters.
I discovered one envelope that stood out from the others right at the bottom of the box.
My name was inscribed over it by Dad.
With trembling fingers, I opened it.
One envelope stood out from the others, I discovered.
My sweetheart,
If you’re reading this, I apologize for not telling you that I was ill, but given how difficult things have been with Sophie, I was unable to accompany you to the coast.
I also couldn’t abandon you in the belief that you were by yourself.
I thus asked everyone who has ever loved our Sophie to send her a letter explaining why she is so unique.
I couldn’t abandon you in the belief that you were by yourself.
This box serves as evidence that you have the support of an entire village.
Never forget that.
We don’t know what tomorrow will bring any of us, so make the most of today, my love. Don’t let grief stop you from enjoying your time with Sophie by the ocean.
I sobbed into Sophie’s hair while holding the letter close to my chest.
“Why are you sobbing, mom?”
Sweetheart, none of us know what tomorrow will bring.
“Because I love your Grandpa so much, baby, and I miss him…”
I made myself inhale.
I then gave Sophie a smile.
However, he stated in this letter that he wants us to enjoy ourselves at the beach, so we will do just that, right?”
Sophie nodded and reached up to dab at my tears.
I made myself inhale.
Three weeks later, Sophie’s door opened while she was coloring in her hospital bed.
The oncologist leaned closer.
“Ma’am, may I have a quick conversation with you outside?”
My heart fell.
I went out into the corridor.
“I have some news,” the oncologist declared.
Her door opened.
“A new clinical trial just opened,” he said, “and Sophie qualifies based on her most recent results.” For the first time, we have an alternative, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Humming a song from Moana, I turned to face Sophie.
“Then we’ll take it,” I replied.
