Brielle rests peacefully in her father’s embrace. Her delicate fingers curl against his chest, her breath slow and uneven, and for a brief moment, the world feels gentle once more.
I sit beside them — trembling, hollowed out by exhaustion and fear — pondering how much more my heart can endure before it fractures.
I’m not a doctor. I’m not a hero.
I’m simply a mother striving to save her child with love, faith, and the last remnants of strength I possess.
Her pain returned two weeks ago — sharp and relentless, like a storm that never ceases. We increased her medication, prayed until our voices broke, and held her through every cry that echoed through the night. Nothing prepares you for the sound of your child softly saying, “Mommy, it hurts.”
Since then, days have merged into nights. Time no longer flows the same way — it folds, it lingers. I stopped answering calls, ceased caring about laundry or bills. All that matters now is the rhythm of her breath, the warmth of her hand in mine, the rise and fall of her fragile chest.
Sometimes, she awakens with a smile — soft, radiant, unburdened by pain for just a few moments. In those instances, I almost believe we’re just an ordinary family again. A family that laughs over breakfast, that plans weekends, that doesn’t measure blessings in minutes and miracles in morphine doses.
But then the pain returns. And with it, the harsh reminder that nothing about this life is ordinary anymore.
People tell me I’m strong. They mean well, but they don’t see the cracks. They don’t witness how I break — quietly, in the hallway, behind the bathroom door, while folding tiny clothes that smell of antiseptic and baby shampoo. I break, and then I piece myself back together because she needs me to.
Yesterday, Brielle asked me a question that cut deeper than any diagnosis ever could.
“Mommy,” she whispered, “why did God make me sick?”
I froze. What do you say to that? What words can possibly make sense of such an unfair pain? I couldn’t provide her with an answer — only my arms. I pulled her close, buried my face in her hair, and said the only truth I knew:
“God made you strong. And brave. And loved beyond measure.”
And perhaps that’s what faith truly is. Not blind hope that everything will be alright — but the quiet, trembling belief that love will guide us through, even when nothing makes sense.
If you saw Brielle today, you’d see a warrior.
She’s fragile, yes — pale and thin from weeks of illness — but her spirit remains untouched. Her smile can soften the hardest hearts. When she laughs, the sound seems to heal the air around her. Even the nurses pause, smiling, as if reminded of something pure and eternal.
Every day she teaches me something new about courage. How it doesn’t roar — it whispers. It breathes through pain. It keeps showing up, no matter how small or scared it feels.
Tonight, the house is silent except for the hum of the monitor and the rhythm of her father’s heartbeat beneath her ear. I should sleep, but I can’t. My heart is too full — of love, of fear, of gratitude for this delicate peace.
So instead, I linger a little longer. I watch her sleep. I trace the outline of her tiny hand, memorize every breath, and whisper another prayer — for strength, for mercy, for one more tomorrow.
Because that’s what mothers do.
We keep loving, even when it hurts. We hold on, even when our hands tremble. We believe, not because we have answers, but because our children need us to.
Love doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t mend broken bodies or rewrite diagnoses. But love — real, stubborn, unyielding love — can hold the world together when everything else is falling apart.
And so I’ll remain here tonight, in this quiet room filled with beeping machines and fragile hope, and I’ll keep whispering to the heavens:
Please, just one more tomorrow.
Because love, when tested to its limits, doesn’t break.
It endures.
