For ten Christmases in a row, my dinner was a bowl of soup, a piece of bread and the same stubborn sentence in my head: “He could have called if he wanted to.”
“He” is my son, Tomás. My only child. My pride. And also the person I hurt the most.

We hadn’t spoken properly in ten years. One horrible fight, words said with too much anger and too little love, and suddenly he was a successful doctor in Valencia and I was “that mother” who refused to call first. Funny how pride can feel like protection… until it turns into a prison.

This Christmas Eve, I was alone again in my tiny rented flat. The city outside was full of lights, laughter, families rushing with gifts. I turned on the radio just for the noise, to drown out the silence. Old songs, commercials, news… and then I heard it:

“Doctor Tomás Ramírez has been admitted to the ICU after collapsing during surgery…”

My heart stopped. There are moments when your body moves before your brain catches up. I grabbed my old grey coat, my bag, and ran out of the door. I didn’t even turn off the light. All those years of waiting for him to come back, and now I was terrified I might be too late.

At the bus stop, reality hit me in the cruelest way: I was missing one euro for the ticket.

One single euro between me and my son’s hospital bed.

I emptied my purse, my pockets, even the folded tissue I keep “just in case.” Nothing. I tried to ask a couple leaving the supermarket; they smiled politely and walked away. The Christmas lights above my head suddenly felt like a joke. I’m seventy-two, my hands shake when I’m nervous, and I have never liked asking for help. And there I was, on Christmas Eve, begging for one euro.

“Señora, are you okay?”

The voice was small but clear. I turned around and saw her: a little girl, maybe eight years old, cheeks red from the cold, wearing a slightly worn red coat and a big scarf that almost swallowed her chin. She was holding a basket with bread rolls.

“I’m fine, hija,” I lied. “I just… I’m missing one coin for the bus.”

She dug into her pocket and pulled out a shiny euro like it was treasure. “Here,” she said, smiling. “My mom says sharing brings good luck.”

I tried to refuse. How could I take money from a child on Christmas Eve?
“No, cariño, that’s yours. Buy yourself something sweet.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugged. “I already spent it.”

“On what?”

“On you.”

I still get chills when I remember that line.

On the bus, we sat together. She told me her name was Alma. I told her mine was Elena. She swung her legs, looked at the city lights outside and suddenly asked, “Are you going alone to the hospital? On Christmas Eve?”

That simple question cut deeper than any insult my son ever threw at me.

“Yes,” I started to say. Then I looked at her, at those warm brown eyes watching me with more kindness than most adults, and I corrected myself. “No. Not anymore.”

We talked like we had known each other for years. She told me about helping in her aunt’s bakery, about burning the bread sometimes, about how her mom sings when she’s angry until the anger melts. “My mom says if you keep ‘I love you’ inside for too long, it gets sad,” Alma said. That sentence scratched at something rusty inside my chest.

When the bus stopped at the hospital, she squeezed my hand. “Remember, señora Elena,” she said seriously, “nobody should be alone at Christmas.”

Inside the ICU, the air smelled of disinfectant and fear. A nurse recognized my son’s name and led me to his bed. Seeing Tomás there—pale, weak, tubes everywhere—was like being hit by all the years I’d wasted. He looked so different and yet exactly the same: my little boy, just taller and more tired.

I took his hand. It was cold.

“Hi, hijo,” I whispered. “It’s mamá. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’ve missed you every single day.”

He didn’t answer at first. Machines beeped, nurses moved like ghosts, somewhere far away fireworks started exploding over Valencia. I sat there holding his hand as if I could pull him back by sheer stubbornness.

And then, just after midnight, his fingers moved.

The nurse leaned in, checking the monitor. “His pulse is getting stronger,” she said, smiling. “Good sign.”

Tomás blinked slowly, like waking up from a long, heavy dream. His eyes searched the room and finally landed on me.

“Mamá?” he whispered.

I laughed and cried at the same time. “Yes, hijo. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He tried to speak again, but the words broke into a sob. “I thought… we were done. I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” I said. “I was just too proud. Too stupid. I’m sorry.”

We held each other’s gaze, both crying, our hands locked together like a knot. At that moment, I felt something break and heal at the same time.

The door opened softly and a small head peeked in. Alma, with her red coat and sleepy eyes, holding an empty basket.

“Sorry,” she said shyly. “I just wanted to see if you got here okay.”

She walked over and took a little red ribbon from her pocket. “My mom says when two people forgive each other, you have to tie something red so the hearts don’t forget.” She wrapped the ribbon gently around our joined hands.

Three days later, Tomás left the hospital on his own two feet. On the way out, the smell of fried dough hit us. Alma and her mom were at a small stall selling churros and bread. Tomás lifted Alma up in a hug as if she were family. Maybe she is.

That night, for the first time in ten years, my Christmas table was full. Tomás, Alma, her mother and me—laughing, eating, talking over each other. In the middle of the table, next to the candles, lay a small red ribbon and a one-euro coin.

People say miracles come from heaven. Maybe that’s true. But sometimes they also come in the pocket of a little girl on a cold bus stop.

Tell me honestly:
Have you ever let pride keep you away from someone you love?
If life gave you a “one-euro chance” like mine, would you take it—before it’s too late?