As much as she wanted the miracle so badly, the realistic part of her mind kept reaching for her heart — trying to pull it back into her chest and whisper that she needed to surrender.
But she didn’t want to.
It wasn’t in a mother’s nature to say, “I’m not powerful enough to fix this.”
She wanted to fix it.
She needed to fix it.
And yet… she couldn’t.
Every cell in her body screamed against that truth.
The helplessness burned like fire.
The unfairness of it all — the way life could hand a child so small, so pure, such heavy battles — felt unbearable.
There were so many beautiful moments in their home, so many little flashes of light between the dark hours.
But one morning stood out among all others.
She had been sitting quietly by Brielle’s bedside, the hum of the oxygen machine filling the silence, when her little girl stirred under the blankets.
Brielle turned toward her mother, eyes half-open, voice as soft as a sigh.
“Someone is talking to me from heaven,” she whispered. “An older person… I don’t know if it was a grandma or grandpa. They said my name.”
Her mother froze.
A chill ran through her.
She wanted to smile — to be brave — so she did what mothers do best: she hid the terror behind love.
She brushed the little girl’s hair from her forehead and asked gently, “What else are the angels saying, sweetheart?”
Brielle’s eyelids fluttered.
She couldn’t stay awake for long anymore.
But she smiled faintly and promised, “I’ll let you know what else they say, Mommy.”
That moment etched itself into her mother’s soul forever.
Because somewhere deep down, she knew.
She knew that the angels really were close — closer than ever.
It had been a week of sleepless nights and endless prayers.
Brielle had spent most of her days sleeping.
Her face, her feet, her tiny belly had started to swell — her body holding water that her fragile system could no longer release.
She no longer ate.
The feeding tubes had been stopped.
She was on oxygen most of the time now.
Her mother sat there, day after day, watching the rise and fall of her child’s chest, the slow rhythm of breath that had become her whole world.
The house felt heavy — like the walls themselves carried the weight of grief.
Each sound — the click of the monitor, the soft exhale of air through plastic tubes — became part of a cruel lullaby.
“I’m hurting,” she whispered to herself.
Every day felt heavy.
Every minute, heavier than the last.
She had read something once — a small, passing phrase that suddenly took root in her mind.
Before we came to earth, someone said, “If we were scared of anything, it was birth, not death.”
Because none of us would have chosen to come to earth without the promise that it was a round trip — that we were never meant to stay here forever.
That one day, we would go home.
That thought stayed with her like a soft, glowing ember in the cold darkness.
It comforted her when the machines beeped in the night, when her daughter’s breath came shallow and slow, when faith felt like a thread ready to snap.
Maybe, she thought, when we were still in heaven, we looked down at this life — at all the joy, the pain, the beauty, and the heartbreak — and we said
yes.
Maybe we saw that every tear, every loss, every trial would shape us into something stronger, something closer to God.
Maybe death was never the enemy.
Maybe it was simply the return ticket — the moment we got to go back home.
She closed her eyes and imagined her daughter before she was born — a tiny soul full of courage, choosing this life.
Choosing this family.
Choosing this journey.
Maybe Brielle had looked at God and said,
“I can do hard things. I want to make people love deeper. I want to show them grace. I want to teach them how to find beauty even when it hurts.”
And maybe God had smiled and said, “Then I will make you small and radiant, and you will change the hearts of everyone you touch.”
Her mother wept at the thought.
Because she knew it was true.
Brielle had changed them all.
Even in her suffering, she carried light.
Even as her body failed her, her spirit filled the room.
There was something sacred in the way she looked at the world — like she could already see beyond it.
Sometimes, late at night, when the pain was too much to bear, her mother would hold Brielle’s hand and whisper the things she wished she could fix.
“I want you to run again. I want you to feel the sunshine on your face without hurting. I want you to taste your favorite food, to laugh with your friends, to grow up and live a thousand tomorrows.”
But she couldn’t give her those things.
So instead, she gave her presence.
She gave her love.
She gave her every heartbeat.
She had to accept the truth she’d fought for so long — that she wasn’t powerful enough to change the circumstances.
No mother wants to admit that.
No mother should ever have to.
But sometimes, love means surrendering.
Not because you’ve given up — but because you trust that there’s something beyond the pain.
Something divine waiting at the end of all this.
As she watched her daughter sleep, she thought again of that comforting line: We have more friends behind the veil than on this side, and they will joyfully welcome us home.
Maybe Brielle wasn’t afraid.
Maybe she could already feel them — the ones waiting on the other side, calling her name, ready to welcome her back.
Maybe heaven didn’t feel far away to her anymore.
Her mother clung to that image — of open arms, of laughter beyond pain, of a home without oxygen tanks or hospital beds.
A place where her little girl could run, sing, and dance again.
Still, the ache inside her didn’t fade.
It lived inside her bones — a silent echo of love that refused to die.
Every time she looked at Brielle, she saw both the miracle and the goodbye.
And in that fragile space between hope and acceptance, she found a strange kind of peace.
Because maybe this was never about fixing things.
Maybe it was about loving someone so fiercely that even death couldn’t undo it.
Maybe it was about learning to let go while still holding on.
She kissed Brielle’s forehead one last time that night, whispering, “If you see them again — the angels — tell them Mommy loves you. Tell them I’ll be okay someday.”
The room was quiet except for the steady hum of the oxygen.
Outside, the stars shimmered — soft, endless, and patient.
And somewhere in that vast silence, a mother’s heart whispered the only prayer left:
“Take care of her, until I can hold her again.”