STT. Update From Brielle’s Mother After Her Passing: A Letter to the “Mothers in Heaven”
She never imagined she would become a letter writer for heaven.
She had imagined herself writing a letter to her teacher.
For future universities.
For summer camp instructors.
Give this to the parents of your child’s friends.
She used to imagine little notes in her lunchbox.
The words written on the mirror were in lipstick, along with a small heart.
She used to imagine birthday cards stretching endlessly into the future.
She never imagined she would be writing letters to mothers who were no longer alive.
And yet, she is doing just that now.
A mother writes for mothers who have passed away too soon.
It wasn’t because she wanted to.
But the pain forced her to learn a language she was not prepared for.
They are mothers who don’t have enough time.
Mothers have memorized the weight of their babies in their arms, only to have to let go too soon.
The mothers left behind lullabies that were left unfinished.
The bedtime stories were left unfinished.
These mothers have never seen their children complete their schoolwork.
I’ve never witnessed my child enter their teenage years.
I’ve never seen my child grow up.
These mothers love their children with all their hearts, but they still have to leave early.
Those are the mothers she’s writing letters to.
Because somehow, inexplicably, they were with her daughter.
A month ago, her daughter was still alive.
Brielle is only nine years old.
Nine years filled with laughter echoing through the hallways.
Nine years of innocent, spontaneous questions.
Nine years of bedtime prayers.
Nine years of scraped knees were soothed by kisses.
Nine years of hugs came naturally, without hesitation.
Nine years of a love so great that now her heart can’t contain it all.
Then heaven took her away.
Silently.
Suddenly.
Without permission.
No prior notice.
Unsympathetic.
Brielle was only nine years old when she left this world.
At nine years old, my mother had to learn to survive in a reality that had lost all meaning.
At the age of nine, childhood ends not only for the child, but also for the woman who gave birth to him.
The world goes on.
The sun still rises.
Everyone was talking as usual.
But for that mother, time had stopped and shattered at the same time.
Now, somehow, Brielle is with them.
Beside the mothers in heaven.
These mothers understand what it means to love their children with every cell in their body.
These mothers understand what it means to be separated too early.
Mothers know that death is not the most painful thing.
It is a separation.
The pain cannot be felt.
The truth is that someone else will have to do what only you are supposed to do.
She pictured them.
They’re not like strangers.
Like sisters in loss.
These women are bound together not by choice, but by pain that transforms their souls.
She believed they understood this pain better than anyone else.
It’s not just about losing a life.
Instead, it means losing the ability to become a mother.
Losing the opportunity to be watched.
Losing the opportunity to lead.
Losing their presence in everyday miracles.
So she wrote them a letter.
From mother to mother.
From heart to heart.
Don’t pretend to be strong.
I don’t know which is the right thing to say.
I only know what she needs to ask for.
Please look after the little girl when I’m unable to.
Please pay attention when your child misses me.
Please see me when I feel small amidst that vastness.
Please hold me close while heaven is still a stranger to me.
Please stay with me when the longing for this world silently creeps into my little heart.
She pictured Brielle entering heaven.
Still carrying cherished memories.
Still retaining the sound of my mother’s voice.
Still unconsciously searching for a familiar face.
She pictured the confusion.
A gentle fear.
A longing for familiarity.
And she prayed that in those moments, those mothers would be there.
Love her with the tenderness that only a mother possesses.
Gentleness comes from sacrifice.
From longing.
From unfulfilled dreams and unspoken goodbyes.
Love her like those who have lost a child, only then will they understand what “forever” means.
She believed that those mothers understood Brielle better than anyone else there.
Because they know what it means to leave a child behind.
They know what it’s like to be separated by something no one can mend.
They know the pain of wanting to touch their child but being unable to.
Perhaps that’s what makes them such a special source of support for Brielle.
And perhaps Brielle, in her innocence, also soothed their pain.
She pictured Brielle sitting next to them.
Listen.
Learn.
Giving away the pure love of a child who hasn’t yet fully understood the cruelty of life.
A child who hasn’t been hardened by time.
A child can soften the pain of those mothers.
Perhaps Brielle reminded them of the children they had left behind.
Perhaps loving Brielle is another way to show love to my child.
She wanted them to tell Brielle something.
Something sacred.
One thing only a mother can carry across two worlds.
Tell your child that I am still their mother.
Please say that I did not abandon my child.
Please say that I love you every second, even now.
Let’s say my love doesn’t stop when your heart stops beating.
Say that love has followed you.
Let’s say I will spend the rest of my life remembering my child.
And let’s say that missing your child is also a way of loving them.
Because love never disappears.
It just changes shape.
It transcends silence.
It survived the separation.
It waited.
Until the day she is reunited with her child, she entrusts the most sacred part of her heart to them.
She entrusted her daughter to him.
She entrusted her love to someone who had no place left on earth.
She was conveying something she couldn’t do herself.
She didn’t sign her name like someone who had recovered.
Not like a strong person.
It’s like someone learning to breathe, just to live, without a child in their arms.
A mother is still learning to breathe without her child.
With gratitude.
With pain.
With a love that never ends.
🤍 Kendra 🤍
