When I found out I was going to be a mother, my world lit up. I imagined the first cries, the tiny fingers curled around mine, the warmth of her skin against my chest. And when the moment finally came, everything seemed perfect. The delivery went smoothly, and little

Elizka was born — rosy, peaceful, beautiful. Healthy, or so we thought.

For two days, I lived in a dream — the soft coos, the midnight feedings, the feeling that everything was exactly as it should be. Then, during a routine examination, the doctor pressed a stethoscope to her chest and paused. His expression changed. He listened again. Then he said quietly,“I’m hearing something unusual — a murmur. We need to check her heart.”

That moment shattered me.

At the cardiologist’s office, the words came fast — unfamiliar, terrifying. “Your daughter has a congenital heart defect.”My husband and I stared in disbelief, as if those words had come from another world. We were told to go to a specialized cardiology clinic in Poznań for further testing.

There, the full diagnosis was made: defects of the heart septum, an atrioventricular septal defect, second-degree mitral valve regurgitation, first-degree tricuspid valve regurgitation, and a small aneurysm.

It felt like the ground had vanished beneath our feet. I kept thinking — how? How could this happen? My pregnancy had been perfect. Every ultrasound showed a strong heartbeat. Every checkup was routine. No one had warned us, no one had prepared us for this.

But when I looked down at her — this tiny girl with her delicate face and gentle breathing — I knew one thing for certain: I would not let her down.

For months, we clung to hope. We followed every instruction, every medication, every appointment. But in May, everything changed again. Eliza’s condition suddenly worsened. Her lips turned pale, her breathing shallow. The cardiologist’s voice trembled as he told us,“She needs surgery. Now.”

Before they took her to the operating room, we baptized her. I remember holding her tiny hand, whispering prayers through tears, begging God to let me see her open her eyes again.

The surgery lasted hours. The waiting room clock barely moved. When the doors finally opened, the surgeon approached us — tired, but smiling. “We managed to close several of the defects,”he said. “She’s stable now.”

Relief crashed over us like a wave. Our daughter had survived.

But even in victory, there were shadows. The aneurysm could not be removed. It was too risky. We were told it would have to be monitored closely, that another surgery might be necessary someday. No one could say when. No one could promise us how this story would end.

Now, every day is a careful dance between gratitude and fear. Eliza’s condition has stabilized, but her life depends on constant medical supervision. She needs regular visits to the cardiology clinic, medications, and ongoing tests. The costs are overwhelming — travel, hospital stays, specialized care — each one another mountain we must climb.

And yet, she smiles.

When she wakes up, her eyes shine like sunlight through clouds. She laughs, she plays, and in those moments, it’s easy to forget how fragile her heart is. But when the nights come, and I hear the soft rhythm of her breathing, I can’t help but listen for anything unusual — a pause, a struggle, a sound that might mean we’re heading back to the hospital.

Sometimes I still find myself whispering, “Please, God, let her heart keep beating.”

We don’t know what the future holds — whether another surgery will be needed or what challenges lie ahead. But I know this: my daughter is a fighter. She has already faced battles most adults never will.

That’s why I’m asking for help.

Every donation, every shared message, every kind word means more than I can ever express. Your support gives Eliza a chance — a chance to grow, to run, to live without pain.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for every act of kindness, for every prayer, for every hand reaching out to hold ours in this fight. Because behind all the medical terms and procedures, this is what remains: a mother’s love, and a little girl’s brave, beautiful heart — still beating, still fighting, still full of hope.