These past days have carried a fragile mix of love, worry, and a quiet kind of strength that only families walking through hard moments truly understand.
Last night, as the house settled into its late-evening stillness, Brielle’s little sister gently pushed open my door. Her tiny feet shuffled across the floor, and when I looked up, her eyes were overflowing before she could even speak. Through soft, trembling sniffles, she whispered, “I’m just so sad because Brielle is sick.”
She’s only three — far too young to carry emotions this heavy, yet somehow she feels every shift in the world around her. She remembers the mornings when she and Brielle would wake up giggling, building blanket forts that filled the living room, pretending to cook in their make-believe kitchen, and dancing around the house without a single worry in sight.
Now, the laughter has faded into memory, replaced by a quieter rhythm — one shaped by hospital updates, long nights, and the uncertain pause that sickness brings into a home. The house feels slower, as though every room is holding its breath, waiting for a little more light to return.
And yet, in her tiny voice and tearful honesty, there was something remarkably strong — a reminder of how deeply love roots itself, even in the smallest hearts. Despite the fear and sadness, she still believes in her sister’s bravery, in the hope of healing, and in the warmth of the moments they will someday share again.
For now, the family holds onto that hope — gently, tenderly, and together.