THE SMILE BEFORE THE UNKNOWN

I smiled for the camera, but inside, everything was falling apart.
Because today might be the last time my family sees me like this.

My name is Beatriz. To the world, it’s just a name. But to my children, I am “Mom,” and that is the only identity that has ever truly mattered to me. This photo was taken just moments before they take me into surgery. I tried to look calm, to appear fearless, but the truth is much harder to admit. I am terrified.

The room is quiet, almost unnaturally so. Only the faint sounds of medical machines break the silence, ticking away like a reminder that time is moving forward whether I am ready or not. My heart beats heavily in my chest, each pulse louder than the last. My hands feel cold, even though the air around me is warm. All I can think about is my family.

Earlier today, my husband held my hand. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at me said everything, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of my face. I tried to lighten the moment, to make him smile, but I saw the truth in his eyes. Fear. The same fear I am trying so hard to hide. He is being strong for me, just as I am trying to be strong for him.

This morning, my daughter sent me a message. “Mom, come back home soon. I need you.” I read it over and over again, each time feeling my chest tighten. I wanted to reply with something comforting, something full of confidence. But all I could write was, “I will try.”

My little son doesn’t fully understand what is happening. Before I left, he hugged me tightly and said, “Don’t stay too long at the hospital.” I smiled and promised him I wouldn’t. But deep inside, I was afraid that it might be a promise I cannot keep.

The doctors say the surgery is risky. They say it could help me, but nothing is certain. That word, uncertain, keeps echoing in my mind. I wish I had control over what comes next, but I don’t. All I can do is hope.

So I wrote a simple message:
“Today is my surgery day, wish me good luck?”

Not because I only need luck, but because I need hope. I need something to hold on to. I need to believe that I will open my eyes again, that I will see my family, sit at our table, laugh, and feel life as it once was.

If I could say one last thing to them, it would be thank you. Thank you for loving me when I felt weak. Thank you for giving me a reason to fight, even when I am afraid.

They are calling my name now.
The door is opening.

And I have to let go of everything familiar.

If I don’t come back, please tell my children that I tried with everything I had.

And if I do wake up…
there is something I have been holding inside my heart for a long time, something I finally want to tell them.