The story of baby Zaniyla begins, as so many fragile stories do, in love.
Love from a mother who held her for the first time and whispered promises into the soft skin of her newborn daughter.
Love from a father who saw her as light.
Love from a family who believed that her life—tiny, delicate, and full of possibility—was a gift they would protect forever.
She came into the world with a smile that made people laugh without meaning to.
Her cheeks were plump, her eyelashes long, her eyes bright enough to steal attention no matter where she was carried.
To her family, she wasn’t simply Zaniyla.
She was Sugar Momma.
She was Baby Z.
She was ZZ.
She was Granny Girl.
Nicknames poured onto her like warmth, each one a small reflection of how deeply she was loved.
She celebrated her first birthday on August 5, though she was too weak to enjoy the candles, too fragile to sit upright, too hurt to smile the way she used to.
No parent imagines spending a child’s first birthday in a hospital room.
No parent imagines watching monitors more than balloons.
No parent imagines their baby fighting for life when they should be learning to walk.
But for Elisha Hill, that was the reality.
And it was a reality that no mother should ever be forced to accept.
On the morning of August 1, the sun had barely risen when Elisha prepared her daughter for the day.
She buttoned her onesie, brushed her curls, kissed her cheeks, and whispered, “Mommy loves you.”
It was a routine she knew by heart.
She was heading to work, and she believed—truly believed—that she was leaving her baby in the care of someone she trusted.
A friend.
A familiar home.
A place where danger felt impossible.
But danger doesn’t always come with warning signs.
Sometimes it hides behind familiarity.
Sometimes it wears the disguise of trust.
Sometimes it enters quietly, on the very day a mother thinks she is doing the right thing.
Hours later, while Elisha was at work, her phone rang.
The voice on the other end sounded uneasy.
Zaniyla was “acting out of character,” they said.
She was on her back, making long spit bubbles.
She seemed distant.
Not alert.
Not herself.
Something inside Elisha cracked open—an instinct, a knowledge, a silent alarm only a mother can hear.
She didn’t wait.
She didn’t pause.
She left work and drove faster than she ever had in her life.
When she arrived, she saw her daughter lying still.
Too still.
Her skin was pale.
Her body limp.
Her eyes unfocused.
Her baby—her miracle—was unresponsive.
Her scream filled the room.
A scream no mother forgets.
A scream no mother should ever have to make.
She held her daughter, whispering her name through tears, begging her to breathe, begging God to undo whatever had happened in those hours she wasn’t there.
Paramedics rushed the toddler to Samaritan Hospital.
Machines beeped, nurses hurried, doctors moved with urgency.
Then she was transferred to Albany Medical Center, where specialists took over.
But even specialized hands could not reverse the damage hidden inside her tiny skull.
For days, she lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes, wires, and the desperate prayers of her family.
Her father, Teshawn Conley, stood over her every day, grieving even before he knew the end.
Her mother never left her side.
They begged her to stay alive.
They begged the universe to give them one more tomorrow.
But on August 6—just one day after her first birthday—baby Zaniyla died.
Her fragile body could not fight anymore.
The autopsy revealed what no parent wants to imagine.
Bleeding inside her skull.
A lack of oxygen to her brain.
Trauma—violent, deliberate, horrifying.
Investigators determined her injuries happened on August 1.
But they could not yet pinpoint where, or exactly when, or by whose hands.
Those answers were trapped in silence, in missing minutes, in the space between truth and fear.
And so her death was ruled a homicide.
And a family who had celebrated her life now had to fight for justice.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Detectives investigated, questioned, followed leads, but offered little information.
To the public, they announced a cash reward for any information.
Up to $2,500.
But to Elisha, the gesture felt hollow.
“Cash reward?? Do ya job,” she wrote, grief sharpening her words.
Because no amount of money could name the person responsible for taking her daughter’s life.
No amount of money could erase the last image she had of her daughter—lifeless, bruised, fading.
Her pain was raw.
Her anger justified.
Her questions unanswered.
She wanted justice.
She demanded it.
She deserved it.
Her daughter deserved it most of all.
Zaniyla’s obituary painted a picture of who she was before tragedy stole her voice.
“She was just beginning to enjoy the pool,” it read.
“She lit up when she heard music.”
“She loved watching her favorite shows with her daddy.”
Her life had been simple joys, tiny discoveries, small miracles.
Her world was laughter, songs, warm arms, and familiar faces.
She was surrounded by a family who adored her—her parents, her sister Lamarianna, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins.
A whole community of hearts shattered by her loss.
Grief rippled through them like shockwaves.
Each day without her felt heavier than the last.
Each morning a reminder of what was stolen.
Each night a question that had no answer: Why her? Why now? Who did this?
Her father said the pain consumed him.
“That eats me every minute,” he confessed.
“Every second.”
He blamed himself for not being there.
Not because it was truly his fault—of course it wasn’t—but because a parent’s heart always looks inward when tragedy strikes.
“I could at least get justice,” he said.
“And I’m not going to stop until I do.”
His voice trembled with the weight of a promise.
A promise that would outlive grief.
A promise that he would carry until justice arrived.
For now, the investigation continues.
Police departments from Watervliet, Troy, and the New York State Police Troop G BCI are pursuing every lead.
Crime Stoppers urges the public to speak up.
Someone knows something.
Someone saw something.
Someone can help.
And somewhere in the quiet spaces of a New York neighborhood, the truth waits.
Hidden.
Terrible.
But waiting.
The story of baby Zaniyla is not just the story of a death.
It is the story of the love she carried in her heart for one short year.
It is the story of a family broken open, but still standing.
It is the story of a community refusing to forget her.
It is the story of justice—slow, winding, but determined.
Her life was brief, but her impact was profound.
Her smile, her laughter, her tiny hands still live in the memories of those who held her.
Her spirit is not gone.
Her light is not gone.
Children like her never disappear—they stay in the air, in the hearts, in the world that loved them.
And until justice comes, her mother and father will keep fighting.
For answers.
For truth.
For their daughter.
For Baby Z—whose story deserves an ending worthy of the love that began it.
