His wish was so simple.

And that is exactly why it breaks your heart in ways you don’t quite know how to name.

Because it was never too big.

Never unreasonable.

Never out of reach.

It was the kind of wish countless children make without ever wondering if it will come true.

Adrian wanted to go to his very first Houston Texans game.

That was it.

One game.

One seat in the stands.

One afternoon where he could stop being a patient and just be a kid who loved football.

For Adrian, that wish wasn’t a passing thought.

It was something he held onto quietly, patiently, year after year.

While other children talked about vacations, birthdays, or toys they hoped to unwrap, Adrian talked about the Texans.

He talked about the players.

He talked about the stadium.

He talked about the day he would finally be there in person, wearing his jersey, surrounded by noise and excitement instead of hospital walls.

But Adrian’s life had never followed the easy path.

Hospitals shaped his childhood in ways no child should have to understand.

ICU rooms became familiar long before they ever should have.

Machines beeped through nights that were supposed to be filled with sleep and dreams.

Medical staff became part of his daily world, stepping in where playgrounds and classrooms should have been.

Every time life seemed ready to move forward, another hospital stay stood in the way.

Another setback.

Another reminder that time did not move the same for Adrian as it did for other kids.

Still, the wish never faded.

If anything, it grew stronger.

It became something to look forward to when days felt long and painful.

Something to imagine when treatments drained his energy and hope felt thin.

So when Make-A-Wish finally called earlier this year, it felt like a door opening after being closed for far too long.

For the first time in a long while, the future held something joyful.

Something exciting.

Something that belonged purely to Adrian.

His mom, Vivi, didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t need to ask him again.

She already knew.

A Houston Texans game.

His first one.

The wish he had talked about for as long as she could remember.

She imagined him in the stands.

She imagined his smile.

She imagined the way his eyes would light up when the team ran onto the field.

For a moment, it felt possible.

It felt close enough to touch.

But life changed again, suddenly and without warning.

In August, Adrian was admitted to the ICU.

This time felt different from the start.

The air felt heavier.

The waiting felt more desperate.

The hope felt fragile, like something that could shatter at any moment.

Days blurred together.

Monitors hummed through endless nights.

Prayers were whispered in low voices, spoken more with the heart than with words.

Adrian never made it home.

On September 12, his journey here ended.

He went to heaven.

And just like that, the dream stopped where it stood.

The wish was never fulfilled.

The tickets were never used.

The stadium never heard his voice cheering from the stands.

There was no first game.

Only the echo of what should have been.

Adrian’s funeral told his story without needing many words.

It was Texans blue.

Not as a theme.

But as a truth.

He was laid to rest wearing his Nico Collins #12 jersey.

Because that team was part of who he was.

Because football was more than a game to him.

It was joy.

It was escape.

It was something normal in a life that was anything but.

People came together to say goodbye, surrounded by the colors he loved.

And even in grief, there was pride.

Pride in who Adrian was.

Pride in the strength he showed.

Pride in the way he held onto his dream through everything.

Now December is approaching.

And with it, Adrian’s birthday.

December 21.

A date that should have been marked by candles and laughter.

A date that now carries an ache words can barely hold.

On that same day, the Houston Texans play at home.

The stadium will be full.

The crowd will be loud.

Jerseys will fill the seats.

And somewhere, a mother will feel the weight of knowing her son should have been there.

Vivi isn’t asking for much.

She isn’t asking for special treatment.

She isn’t asking for attention.

She just wants her baby to be remembered.

She wants the team her son loved to know his name.

She wants his wish honored, even if it comes in a way she never imagined.

Even if it happens while he watches from heaven instead of the stands.

Because Adrian mattered.

His life mattered.

His dream mattered.

Somewhere beyond this world, maybe Adrian is finally free.

Free from hospital rooms.

Free from pain.

Free from the limits that held him back for so long.

Maybe he’s wearing that jersey again.

Maybe he’s cheering louder than anyone else.

Maybe he’s finally at the game he waited his whole life to see.

All Vivi is asking for is a moment of remembrance.

A name spoken.

A story shared.

A wish honored, even in absence.

Stories like Adrian’s remind us how fragile time truly is.

They remind us that the smallest wishes can carry the greatest weight.

They remind us that behind every seat in a stadium, there are dreams that never made it there.

If this story moves you, please share it.

You never know who might see it.

You never know whose heart it might reach.

And if you could say one thing to Adrian’s mom on his birthday, what would it be?