What was left behind

This entry is about losses.

No romanticizing. Just the raw truth.

Losing something hurts.

It hurts because it's over.

It hurts because it will no longer be.

We have talked at length about everything we lost in that accident on April 17, 2025.

First, there was the loss of his health, which resulted in Oliver's disability. But before that, we had to face the imminent loss of his life, saying goodbye to our little boy. And for that, words cannot express our feelings.

We missed the opportunity to meet our son in an environment without limitations.

He lost the opportunity to live a “normal” childhood.

We've also talked a lot about what it meant to lose our home. We left Königsbronn, our house, on April 2nd, with our suitcases packed for a couple of weeks' vacation in Mexico, leaving the house clean and ready for our return five weeks later. I remember taking inventory in the pantry and getting rid of perishable items, knowing that they wouldn't be usable when we got back.

My children each chose two or three toys to take in their backpacks. Everything else was left behind, waiting for our return.

We lost that home where we dreamed of growing old, where Julián, Sebastián and Oliver learned to crawl and walk; a home we made our own with photos, paintings, colors and also scratches.

These losses are material and, at some point, they cease to have so much weight when you face bigger challenges, when you compare them with emotional losses, where the pain is unimaginable.

In 2017, I left my country, Mexico, to pursue a dream in Germany. I was going to study for my master's degree, and after finishing it, fate intervened: I fell in love, got married, and never returned to my country. I'd already left everything behind once in my life. I lost it. But it was a choice. Painful, yes, but a choice nonetheless.

This time we had no choice. In an instant, we had to leave everything behind because there was simply no way back. And although I will always be Mexican, Germany was already my home. I lived in that beautiful country for eight years, learning its language, its culture, raising my children in a bicultural home that respected both traditions, a home where we ate butterbrezel for breakfast and tacos for lunch. And just as suddenly as it arrived, it was gone.

After the accident, we spent the next 40 days in the hospital, always on the edge of uncertainty. Oliver's life wasn't guaranteed, despite having already survived so much. As the doctors say now, a simple sneeze could have killed him. When the moment came when they told us, "You can take him home now, we're going to discharge him," we looked at each other and said:

Which house?

Ours is ten thousand kilometers away.

My parents, with all their love, opened their home to us. They adapted everything necessary to welcome us: a family broken by grief, with a severely disabled baby, parents trembling with fear, and children who didn't understand what was happening. Although it was an immense act of love, we knew it couldn't last forever.

Our friends were left behind. They say true friendships survive distance, but it's hard to stay in touch when we're living in survival mode, when each family is going through its own reality and daily life becomes too much, when we can no longer make plans for dinner or simply get together.

The twins lost their new friendships, their kindergarten experiences, the opportunity to learn a language naturally. They lost what was their safe haven. They lost the chance to teach Oliver how to be mischievous, to defend him from the bullies who might have bothered him someday. They lost their third musketeer, because he's still here, but he can no longer be part of their daily life.

I can continue in my role as a mother by taking care of Oli, but they can't continue in their role as siblings by playing with him or teaching him to play soccer. The moments they share now, which are still precious, are very different and few: watching a little television together, going for walks and playing a game of who can spot the most dogs in the street, asking Oli what color they should make his LEGO tower—blue or red—and letting him decide.

Believe me, those moments are magical and fill me with pride, but I know that for them the loss of their brother, whom they saw born and become part of this family, has been deeply painful.

Oliver missed out on kindergarten, on having friends his own age. Today, his best friends are his nurses. They're amazing and adore Oliver, but they can't offer him the experience of learning and sharing with other young children like him.

Mind you, positive thinking leads me to believe that the work we do every day will lead Oliver to countless experiences, that there are no limits for him. But as a mother, knowing what could have been hurts.

We lost what we once were.

And we lost what could have been.

We also lost the ability to make decisions that weren't based on money. Before the accident, Stefan worked and I stayed home taking care of the children. We lived on a single income, but comfortably and without major limitations. We could go to the supermarket when we needed to, spend weekends at amusement parks, and visit my family in Mexico. We never lacked anything, although we didn't have much to spare either.

The moment came when saving our son's life depended on whether we could afford his care and surgeries. Losing our financial independence was incredibly difficult: no jobs, no savings.

And that's when we also lost something else: the shame of asking for help.

I like to think this is something any parent would do for their children: try everything possible to help them. If that meant making our story public and asking for help, then so be it. And we were heard. And we were supported. And we continue to be supported.

Maybe it sounds selfish. Maybe it seems like I'm asking for too much. My son survived something almost no one survives. The miracle has already happened.

So why focus on the past that's gone or the future that won't be, when you have a present?

1. Lake Garda, Italy, 2024.

2. Disneyland, California. 2024

3. Paris, France, 2025.

   Because talking about loss is a luxury. If we lose something, it's because we once had it. We don't miss what was never ours. I miss my house because I had it. Today I have another: different, not better or worse, just different. And it takes time for everything to find its place in our minds.

I've lost the chance to be the mother I wanted to be. Or the one I was trying to be. The one who baked cookies with her three children, even though it took us three hours to knead the dough, another three to shape them, three more to decorate them, and then spend hours cleaning the kitchen. That fun-loving mom, the one my children would come looking for to play with.

Today they tell me: "Mom, you're always tired or busy."

And it hurts.

That loss of myself hurts. I wish I could break myself into pieces and give myself to them equally, but the reality is that in this house there's a child who needs a little more than the others. And although our efforts as parents and the huge support network we have have been angels along the way, at the end of the day we fall short.

We need to talk about the losses.

We have to mourn them.

Living through grief.

Thank you for having had them.

Trust that what's coming can be even better than what was.

And, above all, to look at what remains after the loss.

My husband remains, fighting against the tide to be the best father while also being broken inside.

My twins remain, who, although physically unharmed, miss and suffer from the changes they were forced to undergo.

My Oliver remains, with a huge disability, perhaps one of the hardest, because it makes him 100% dependent on external help to live.

My parents, my family, my old friends, and my new friends remain.

There remains a local and global community that embraces us and reminds us that we are not alone.

Hope and love remain: a love greater than pain and a hope greater than the pessimism of the situation.

I trust my son. I carried him in my womb, and from the very beginning, his journey has been difficult. I spent the first three months in bed, on complete rest due to a threatened miscarriage; since then, Oliver has been a fighter. Upon being born and joining this family, he had to find his place among twin brothers with an already strong bond. He searched for where he fit in. And he did. He became the calm in our storms, the perfect balance.

If Julián and Sebastián fought over the TV remote, Oliver would run over, snatch it from whoever had it, and throw it down the stairs. He wanted to avoid conflict.

If they fought over who would eat the last cherry on the cake, Oliver would eat it... and the conflict would be over.

That was Oliver.

That remains the case.

In its own way, it continues to accommodate us all, seeking its own place in this new reality.

But losses hurt.

And they hurt because something that was once possessed was lost.