My son Mateo is only seven, but he’s spent more time in and out of the hospital than any child ever should. Leukemia. Stage three. The kind of diagnosis that stops your heart when you hear it.
A few weeks ago, one of the nurses asked Mateo if he had a wish. Without missing a beat, he said, “I want to be a police officer.” No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a big, determined smile on his face, like he could actually feel the badge on his little hospital gown.
I thought maybe they’d send him a sticker or a toy badge. Something small to lift his spirits.
But this morning? A whole different story.
Around ten a.m., I hear voices in the hallway. Radios crackling. Boots squeaking on the tile. Then, five officers in full uniform step into the room, hats in hand, all wearing warm smiles like they’ve known Mateo forever.
One of them—Officer Ramirez—kneels beside his bed and says, “We heard there’s a brave new recruit in here.”
Mateo’s eyes light up. They hand him a little badge with his name engraved on it, and a cap that’s too big for his head. But the part that really got me wasn’t the gifts. It was when Officer Ramirez asked if they could pray with him.
Right there, all of them bowing their heads around his hospital bed. Mateo holding that badge tight, like it was the most important thing in the world.
Then, after the prayer, Officer Ramirez pulls me aside. He says there’s something else they’ve been planning… but he needs my approval first.
He won’t say what.
Just gives me a look that says whatever it is, it’s huge.
And honestly, I don’t know if I’m ready to hear it.
I glance at Mateo, who’s totally absorbed in his new badge, tapping it against the bed in a steady rhythm. He looks happier than I’ve seen him in weeks. That alone makes me think, “What’s the harm in letting these officers do something special for him?” So I turn back to Officer Ramirez and quietly say, “Okay. I’m in.”
A flash of relief crosses his face. He tips his head in thanks and disappears into the hallway with the others, speaking in hushed tones. I can’t catch everything, but I do hear the words “all set for tomorrow.” My stomach twists. Tomorrow? What’s going to happen tomorrow?
I pull up a chair next to Mateo’s bed. He tugs on my sleeve and asks, “Are they gonna let me ride in a police car, Dad?” His excitement is contagious. I ruffle his hair and shrug with a smile. “Maybe something even better than that,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure myself.
The rest of the day is a blur. Mateo has another round of chemo, and afterward, he’s wiped out. But that badge never leaves his side. Later in the evening, a few nurses who overheard the officers talking sneak in and ask, “Are you excited about tomorrow?” I shake my head and laugh. “I have no idea what’s going on,” I tell them. They all share giddy smiles, and I feel a little nervous. Surprises aren’t usually my thing.
The next morning, Mateo wakes up with more energy than I’ve seen in a while. He swings his feet off the hospital bed and insists on wearing “real clothes” instead of the gown. The nurses help him into a pair of jeans and a comfy shirt—he’s lost some weight, so they hang loosely on him. But he beams like he’s heading to a huge family celebration.
Around ten a.m., right on schedule, there’s a knock on the door. This time, Officer Ramirez is back with a few new faces. He introduces them: Officer Rhodes, Officer Cartwright, and Captain Minetti. Captain Minetti steps forward and hands me a small envelope. “I hope you’re ready,” the captain says with a kind grin.
I open the envelope, my hands trembling slightly. It’s an invitation—on official department stationery—addressed to “Recruit Mateo,” inviting him to a special ceremony at the local police station. I look up at them, stunned. “A ceremony?” Officer Ramirez nods. “You said you were in, right?” He grins. “Well, we’re turning our entire front lawn into a safe zone for our newest recruit to do his rounds. We’ve got a few surprises lined up, too.”
I blink back tears, handing the invitation to Mateo. He reads it slowly, his jaw dropping. “Dad… they’re letting me go to the police station?” His voice shakes with excitement. The nurses in the room are wiping away tears, and the hospital hallway starts buzzing with excitement.
Before I know it, we’re loading up the car. Mateo’s oncologist, Dr. Kumar, waves from the curb, reminding me to keep an eye on his energy levels. The police cruiser leading us has its lights flashing, but no sirens—just a little fanfare. We follow behind in my old sedan, with Mateo in the backseat, looking like he might burst from joy. He’s wearing the oversized police cap, gripping his engraved badge like it’s his lifeline.
When we arrive at the station, the parking lot is full. Men and women in uniform stand in formation. As we pull up, they burst into applause. I almost can’t believe it. This is for my boy—my brave, sweet, seven-year-old son, who’s been fighting for his life and just wanted to be a cop.
Officer Ramirez helps Mateo out of the car. The applause grows louder. Cameras flash—some local reporters must’ve caught wind of the event. A therapy dog trots over, tail wagging, sniffing at Mateo’s sneakers. Mateo bends down, grinning from ear to ear, and gives the dog a big hug.
Captain Minetti steps forward and officially swears Mateo in as an “Honorary Junior Officer.” They hand him a certificate with his name in big letters. The crowd cheers, and Mateo raises his badge high like he just won the biggest trophy in the world. I laugh and clap, tears streaming down my face.
But the surprises aren’t over yet. The captain waves his hand, and a few officers gently guide Mateo over to a real police cruiser. They open the door, let him sit in the back seat for fun, then lift him into the front like a true officer. With help, he turns on the lights for a few seconds—no sirens, just those bright flashing beams reflecting on his ecstatic face.
The crowd moves to the station’s lawn, where they’ve set up a small obstacle course—a tiny “training course.” Officer Cartwright walks Mateo through how to navigate a few traffic cones, reminding him to keep a sharp eye out for “toy bandits” (stuffed animals scattered around). Mateo takes the task seriously, pointing out each stuffed animal’s location. The crowd laughs in the most encouraging, warm way.