Pacho's handwritten note: My mother once said that football couldn't support a family, and now that I've succeeded, you're gone.

Paris Saint-Germain defender Willian Pacho published a lengthy article in The Players' Tribune, recalling the profound influence his mother had on his life and football career. He mentioned that his mother once said football was hard to support a family, but now that he has achieved success, she has passed away.

When I dreamt I was home, the image that came to mind was of my mother's feet as she danced Bachata in the living room. One, two, three, one, two, three. Her warmth, the warmth of our home. She always listened to Aventura songs; I think it was because of the pain of being separated from my father. My father left when I was born. Every night, after a long day at work, she would come home and put on music.

I was about eight years old, and my biggest wish was to dance with her. Unfortunately, I was a terrible dancer. I spent months looking down at her feet, trying to imitate her. One, two, three, one, two, three. I never looked up at her face, only at my feet, trying to keep up with the beat. I don't know how long it took, maybe a year. One day, I finally heard her say, "That's it! William, you got it! You got it!" I looked up at her face, and she was smiling so happily.

Back then, I had no idea what a "football player" was; I was just playing for fun. In Ecuador, you couldn't even dream of someone paying you for that. Actually, my dream was to be a naval officer. One day, my godmother's husband showed up in his pristine white uniform, and I was instantly smitten. "They're paying you to sail? And giving you that cool gear? Take me with you!"

One day, someone wanted me to join the community club, but my mother said, "Football? It's just a hobby. How can you support a family with football?" I think she never truly accepted it. In her eyes, it was just something I did after school. But she always supported me. In the mornings, she set up a food stall near my sister's school. I would get especially excited when she brought home leftover meat rolls in the evening. At night, she would wash clothes for the neighbors to earn extra money; she didn't have a washing machine, only her hands and a bucket.

And then there were the pigs. We lived on the hillside of Kiningde, and we kept some livestock in our backyard. In tough times, we only had skinny chickens; in better times, we had pigs. The local government probably had some complaints, but my mother was charming, and everyone liked her. Every Christmas, they got a good piece of pork, so they turned a blind eye. What did the pigs eat? Leftovers. Guess who fed the pigs? "William! Get here right now!" I was always kicking the ball in the street, pretending not to hear. "William! Come here right now!" I was always testing my limits, every extra minute I touched the ball was precious. "Mom, I'm coming! I'm coming!" You know, mothers have their own special, serious phrase? She'd say, "Right now means right now!" That was the signal; I really had to go.

I knocked on doors, and neighbors came out with their trash cans. My hands were covered in rice as I picked out the bones. The smell was awful, especially in the summer. As I grew older, people laughed at me; some adults even gave me mocking smiles. It leaves a mark on you. Every December, when the pigs were fattened, we slaughtered them for roast meat, and every household in the neighborhood got a share, including those who kept their doors closed. I asked my mother, "How can you feed those who won't even help?" She said, "Don't worry about it, everyone gets a good piece of meat." I took the meat to those who had laughed at me to my face. "Merry Christmas to the Pacho family." My mother had the most generous heart in the world, and I think she was teaching me a deeper lesson—we turned leftovers into a feast. I've carried this lesson with me my whole life.

At 15, football took me away. I moved into the Independiente Valley youth academy, a few hours' drive from home. My mother couldn't understand why anyone would provide room and board for a kid just because he was good at football. At first, I was lonely, but I met my best friend there, Moisés, who became my roommate. Later, we shared an apartment and split the expenses. We had a habit—Moisés cooked, I washed the dishes, and we'd switch back the next day. We were just two ordinary boys trying to make something of ourselves. My roommate wasn't just any Moisés; he was Moisés Caicedo. Who would have thought that two boys washing dishes would one day be playing in the Champions League? Impossible.

I'll never forget the moment Moises was called up to the first team and started earning a little money, he bought a Hyundai Sonata, racing red. Haha, for us, it was like him buying a Ferrari. I was happy for him, and it gave me hope. I dreamed of the Sonata. Everything was good, I wasn't alone anymore, and I was getting closer and closer to the first team. Then my world changed.

One day, I received a call from home. It was my sister. She said that Mom had "removed that thing." She had always had a lump under her armpit, which the doctor had initially thought was benign. Later, it started to hurt, and after it was removed... At first, I didn't quite understand. I was terrified when I heard the word "cancer," but my mother told me not to worry, that the doctor would handle it. "Don't come back for me, you need to focus on playing football." Every time she called, she said everything was fine and never wanted me to worry.

In 2019, I went home for vacation and took a bus back to Jiningde. The moment I walked in, I knew she had been hiding it from me. My mother used to be a robust woman, very "present," her presence filling the room—dancing, singing, shouting, cleaning, cooking, laughing… But this time, she was terribly thin. She said, "Don't worry, I'm fine." I struggled to hold back my tears. That night, as I applied her medicine, she took off her shirt, and I saw she had undergone surgery; a drainage tube was inserted in her back, her left breast had been removed, and her skin was covered in burn scars. I tried my best to hold back my tears. "Mom, are you in pain?" "I'm fine, I'm fine." That night, I slept beside her like I did when I was a child. After she fell asleep, I cried silently all night, afraid of worrying her.

A few days later, I had to return to the youth training camp, my heart filled with fear. I never take photos, I don't know why, I just don't like them. So I don't have many photos of my mother on my phone, only on my birthday. While packing, I thought I should take a picture with her. But for some reason, I didn't dare. Maybe I was convincing myself: "No, you'll see her again. You definitely will. When you come home again, she'll be much better, and you can take as many pictures as you want." I returned to the youth training camp, an eight-hour bus ride through the mountains. I kept thinking: You can't lose her now. You haven't bought her a big house yet, so she can listen to Marco Antonio Solís while cleaning on Sundays, dancing in the kitchen with a mop. We still have so much to do. I cried until my lungs ached.

A few months later, the coach told me I was going to make my first-team debut. I immediately called my mother, but she didn't answer. That was normal; she never carries her phone. We had talked the day before, and she said she was very tired. She's always been very conscious of her appearance; that time she said, "I think I look terrible today." I said, "Mom, you look great. Don't overthink it, just get some rest." She didn't call back. I sent her a text message: "Don't go to bed too early tomorrow! It's my debut, you have to watch the game!"

I was so nervous I couldn't sleep; my sheets were soaked with sweat. All I could think about were the two strikers in top form I was facing. I finally fell asleep just before dawn. When I woke up, I was bombarded with text messages and voice messages from relatives and friends—an unusually large number. You know that feeling; you immediately know something's wrong. I scrolled through the messages, everything was blurry. Everyone was talking about my mother, saying how much they loved her, expressing their condolences, and praying for me. I frantically called my sister. "Mom? Mom?! What happened?" "What? Don't talk nonsense, it's just a rumor, she's fine. You know how people in this village are; they don't know anything. The ambulance took her home, and they're just making things up. She's resting, don't worry, she'll play again after the game."

Her tone was so certain, I completely believed her. My last thought before stepping onto the pitch for the match was: Mom's watching you on TV, you have to win every single goal for her. I remember playing really well; we kept a clean sheet. I couldn't wait to video call her. As I left the field, the coach pulled me aside and led me into a small room next to the locker room; the team doctor and psychologist were there too. I thought they were going to congratulate me and tell me to be humble. The door opened, and my father and brother-in-law were waiting for me. They told me that my mother was gone. She had passed away that morning. They had known all day, everyone—the coach, my family—had kept it from me, letting me achieve my dream, thinking that would be what my mother wanted. I cried, more than I had ever cried. I had never felt so alone. Why was the person I loved most taken away? The only person I could truly trust, the reason I did everything. Why her? Why? Why? Why? They told me to change, and I said, "No, take me to see her now." I started my journey home in my dirty jersey, crossing the Andes Mountains. If you haven't been to Ecuador, you can't imagine what it's like to drive on mountain roads at night—it's like riding a roller coaster in the dark, with no guardrails. When you stop to pee, you're standing on the edge of the world.

I kept needing to urinate, almost every 30 seconds. "Excuse me, stop the car." I was so nervous before the game, afraid of cramps, that I drank a lot of water. The first time I stopped, I walked to the edge of the cliff and told myself, "This must be a dream, she can't really be gone." The second time I stopped, I looked at the edge—pitch black, just an abyss. A very dark thought flashed through my mind: "...What if I do something now?" "If I take one step off the edge, it'll all be over." No, don't be silly. "But how can I live without her? I can go find her, it's easy, just one step." The fourth time I stopped, I walked a little closer. I was in so much pain I couldn't cry anymore. I looked down into the abyss, thinking only: Mom, I don't want to be left here alone. Finally, my brother-in-law and father noticed something was wrong. They didn't say anything, but after that, every time I stopped, they took me to the edge and held me tightly. I thank God they were there. I don't know if I'll actually jump... but just that thought still terrifies me. I know that as a football player, telling this story is a huge risk, but I'm telling it for all the children who lost their parents at a young age. It's a wound that only we can understand, one that will never heal.

We arrived home in the early hours of the morning. Our house was at the end of a dead-end alley, and the street was packed with people from all over who had come to say goodbye. There were so many cars that we had to park far away. I walked home wearing my soccer jersey. Everyone came out of their houses to hug me, and the streets were lined with people. The more people I saw, the closer I got to the house, the heavier my chest felt. I didn't want to step inside, because stepping inside meant it was real. I remember thinking: Mom walked these roads every day. She walked them when she was young, she walked them after becoming a mother, and finally, she embarked on her journey home to meet God. When we got home, I smelled the familiar scent of home, and I couldn't cry anymore. I could barely breathe; my throat felt blocked, and I could only cough dryly. I lay on her bed, and all the memories came flooding back—clean clothes, hot meals, books, Venus soccer cleats. She always gave everything, giving me the best. Without her, life had no meaning.