A DESPERATE MOTHER ASKS STEPH CURRY FOR HELP, AND HIS RESPONSE MAKES EVERYONE CRY
A Desperate Mother Asks Steph Curry for Help, and His Response Makes Everyone Cry
The cutting January wind blew through the streets of Oakland, California, bringing with it the characteristic chill of winter in the San Francisco Bay. Lisa Morales, a 38-year-old nurse and single mother, closed the apartment door behind her, exhausted after another double shift at Highland Hospital. Her eyes immediately searched for her son, Jamie, a 12-year-old boy who was sitting on the sofa with his inseparable sketchbook.
“How are you feeling today, champ?” Lisa asked, forcing a smile as she hung up her coat. Jamie, thin and pale, offered a weak smile. “I’m fine, Mom. Mr. Parker helped me with the lessons I missed.”
Lisa nodded gratefully, thinking of the dedicated teacher who had offered to help Jamie when he couldn’t go to school. For the past eight months, since Jamie’s diagnosis of osteosarcoma—a type of bone cancer in his right leg—their lives had turned upside down. Sitting next to her son, Lisa noticed the drawing he was making: a basketball player shooting a perfect ball into the basket. Even without the number 30 on the jersey, she immediately recognized Stephen Curry’s slender figure.
“Another drawing of Curry?” she asked, running her fingers through Jamie’s thin hair, which was just beginning to grow back after the latest cycle of chemotherapy.
“He’s the best, Mom. No matter how tough it gets, he always finds a way,” Jamie replied, turning the page to show more drawings of Curry celebrating after a three-point basket, hugging his teammates, and posing with his family. Jamie’s small room was practically a shrine to Stephen Curry, with posters covering the walls and an autographed shirt that Lisa had saved for months to buy at a charity auction occupying the place of honor.
Later that night, after putting Jamie to bed, Lisa sat at the kitchen table, spreading medical bills and collection notices in front of her. The health insurance covered part of the treatments, but the additional costs—the experimental medications recommended by the oncologist, the absences from work to take Jamie to appointments—were sinking her financially. With trembling hands, she opened her laptop and checked her email. There was a new message from Dr. Ramirez: the current treatment wasn’t producing the expected results. He recommended a new experimental protocol at a specialized center in Boston, but the insurance refused to cover it.
Lisa covered her face with her hands, allowing herself to cry silently for the first time that day. The apartment was quiet, only the occasional hum of the old refrigerator breaking the silence. “I promised I’d do everything for you, Jamie,” she whispered to herself, her eyes turning to the wall where she had pinned photos of Jamie before the illness—playing basketball on the school team, smiling widely in his Golden State Warriors shirt.
On impulse, Lisa opened her social media. She rarely used it except to stay connected with friends and relatives, but that night, with desperation building up like a storm in her chest, she began typing a message addressed to Stephen Curry’s official account. “What am I doing?” she muttered, stopping halfway. The chances of a celebrity like Curry seeing her message were practically non-existent. But looking at the dark hallway leading to Jamie’s room, where her son slept, dreaming of three-point shots and impossible victories, Lisa found the strength to continue. With tears in her eyes, she wrote her message and attached a photo of Jamie with his Warriors shirt at the hospital. She pressed send and closed the laptop, not knowing that this desperate gesture would change their lives forever.
Lisa’s morning routine invariably began at 5:30, well before sunrise. On that gray Thursday morning, while preparing breakfast and sorting Jamie’s medications, her cell phone vibrated with a notification. It was probably Karen, her supervisor at the hospital, asking if she could cover another shift. Distracted, Lisa unlocked the phone and froze. A direct message on her Instagram account from a verified profile: Stephen Curry.
“Good morning, Lisa. Your message deeply touched me. I would like to talk more about Jamie. Please check your email in the next few minutes. SC.”
Lisa dropped the spoon she was holding, scattering cereal across the kitchen counter. With trembling hands, she ran to her laptop. There was a new email from an assistant at the Eat. Learn. Play. Foundation, Stephen and Aisha Curry’s charitable organization. “This can’t be real,” Lisa murmured, but the email seemed legitimate, requesting a phone number for contact and including information that only someone who had read her message could know.
Twenty minutes later, still trying to process what was happening, Lisa’s phone rang with an unknown San Francisco area number. “Hello?” she answered hesitantly.
“Lisa Morales?” a professional female voice responded. “I’m Melissa Chen, Mr. Curry’s executive assistant. He was deeply touched by your story and would like to help.”
What followed was a surreal conversation. Melissa explained that Stephen wanted to meet Jamie personally and was arranging tickets for the next home game, including a backstage meeting.
“That’s amazing!” Lisa managed to say, tears streaming down her face. “But I need to be honest—Jamie’s situation is complicated. He doesn’t always have the energy to leave the house, and I can barely pay our bills, let alone—”
“Lisa,” Melissa gently interrupted, “Mr. Curry is aware of the medical situation. A car will be sent to pick you up, and he would like to talk about how he can help beyond this meeting.”
When Jamie woke up that morning, Lisa sat on the edge of his bed, not knowing how to break the news without sounding like a fantasy. “Jamie, I have something to tell you, but it’s so unbelievable I don’t know where to start.” The boy’s eyes widened when she showed him the message and explained the call. For a fleeting moment, Jamie’s pale face lit up with a smile that Lisa hadn’t seen in months—the same open, spontaneous smile that she treasured in her memories from the time before the diagnosis.
“Mom, you really wrote to him and he answered?” Jamie asked, his weak voice gaining a tone of excitement that broke Lisa’s heart.
“Yes, champ. I was desperate, and well, it seems our cry was heard.”
The days that followed were a roller coaster. Lisa exchanged emails with Curry’s team, sent the requested medical details to ensure Jamie would be safe during the visit, and requested time off from the hospital, which her supervisor immediately granted upon hearing the story.
On the Sunday before the game, while Jamie was resting after a difficult morning with medication side effects, Lisa received another call from Curry’s team. This time it was to inform her that a pediatric oncology specialist from UCSF Benioff Children’s Hospital had been consulted about Jamie’s case and would like to review his medical history if Lisa permitted.
In her small Oakland apartment, sitting on the floor next to Jamie’s bed as he finally fell asleep, Lisa allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this unexpected miracle could be the beginning of a turning point in their lives
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