Remembering Margarett Sylvia Travaille – A Little Light Who Touched Every Heart and Now Shines Beyond This World.q

She was three years old, small enough that her feet still dangled from most chairs, yet somehow bright enough to fill an entire room with her personality.

That was the first thing people noticed about little Margarett Travaille.

She was spunky.

She was sweet.

And she had a spark inside her that even cancer could not dim.

One might have expected fragility in a child who had spent so many months in hospitals, but Margarett carried herself with a spirit that surprised everyone—including the doctors who had watched her endure more than any child should ever face.

She had a way of lifting her chin, widening her eyes, and responding to the world with a boldness that whispered, “I’m still here.”

Her mother, Megan Travaille, often said it best.

“She’s got a sweet side, but she definitely has some spunk to her.”

And that was the truth—Margarett was both gentle and fierce, soft and fiery, delicate and unstoppable in the same breath.

The Travaille family lived near Sibley, Iowa, in a quiet stretch of countryside where the seasons moved slowly and families grew close through long winters and shared stories.

Megan and her husband were parents to three children, but Margarett—tiny, golden-haired, and full of unexpected courage—had become the heart of the home.

Their life looked ordinary once: school mornings, meal times, weekend chores, laughter echoing down the hallway.

But last year, everything changed.

Margarett was diagnosed with stage 4 hepatoblastoma—an aggressive childhood liver cancer that stole breath, stole time, and demanded every ounce of strength from her little body and from the parents who loved her.

The diagnosis arrived like a quiet hurricane.

No warning.

No preparation.

Just a sudden shift in the world, followed by months of hospital rooms, whispered conversations, and the sterile scent of chemotherapy that lingered long after each treatment ended.

Sanford Children’s Hospital became their second home.

The walls, the hallways, the waiting rooms—they all became stitched into the fabric of the family’s memories.

Margarett’s cancer journey included round after round of chemotherapy.

Tubes.

Monitors.

Surgery scars.

And days where strength seemed to drain from her like water falling through open fingers.

But still, she kept smiling.

Still, she kept fighting.

Still, she kept finding joy in the smallest moments—a sticker offered by a nurse, a glittery crayon for drawing, a stuffed animal left on her bedside table.

Yet the disease advanced.

Slowly at first.

Then suddenly, terribly fast.

And now, the family was facing the reality that no parent ever wants to face.

Margarett was receiving full-time hospice care.

The focus was no longer cure.

The focus was comfort—making sure she was surrounded by gentleness and love for however long this chapter remained.

But in the midst of heartbreak, something beautiful unfolded—something no one had expected.

Sanford Children’s Hospital selected little Margarett for an extraordinary honor.

This year, she would serve as Switch Master for the annual Christmas at the Castle celebration.

She would be the one to light up the Castle—flipping the switch that ignites thousands of holiday lights, glowing across the cold December night.

When they told her, her answer was simple, pure, and filled with the charm that made everyone adore her.

“Put the lights on,” she said, her small voice full of excitement.

It was the same Castle she had looked out at the year before.

Back then, she had been an inpatient—one of the children watching from behind hospital glass as others gathered outside for the lighting ceremony.

Her mother remembered it clearly.

“Last year, we were the ones getting inpatient treatment,” Megan said softly.

“We were the patients looking out the window, watching the tree getting lit.”

There had been something bittersweet about that moment.

The brightness outside.

The cold dark inside.

The child in the hospital bed, separated from the world she longed to be part of.

But this year was different.

This year, it would be her moment.

Her chance to stand outside the Castle.

Her chance to flip the switch.

Her chance to be the light.

For her family, it meant something deeper—something sacred.

“We get to add it to the memory list,” Megan said.

“As we know this chapter is coming to a close, we know this will be something memorable and something we’ll always cherish in our hearts.”

There was love in her voice.

There was grief.

There was acceptance wrapped in tenderness.

And above all, there was a breathtaking kind of courage—the courage of a mother watching time slip through fingers but choosing to savor every luminous second that remained.

Christmas at the Castle would take place on December 2nd.

The celebration would include treats, princesses, superheroes—the magical symbols of childhood joy.

And at the center would be a little girl with golden hair and a brave smile, holding a switch that would illuminate the night.

For the community, it would be a moment of wonder.

For the hospital, it would be a moment of tribute.

For the Travaille family, it would be a moment they would forever hold close.

And for Margarett—this bright, spunky, fierce little soul—it would be one more chance to shine.

One more chance to fill the world with light.

One more chance to remind everyone that even the smallest children can carry the biggest courage.

Perhaps that is why the Castle lights seemed symbolic this year.

Christmas lights are hopeful.

They glow against the cold.

They soften the dark.

And they remind us that even when nights lengthen and shadows fall, brightness can still bloom.

Margarett was that brightness.

Her life—though heartbreakingly brief—had touched thousands.

Her courage had become a beacon.

Her smile had reminded many that life’s most beautiful light often comes from those who are fighting the hardest battles.

On the night of the ceremony, the Castle courtyard would be filled with families bundled in coats, holding warm drinks, gathering close.

Children would run with excitement.

The air would taste like snow.

And somewhere among them, held gently by her parents, would be three-year-old Margarett—small, brave, luminous.

When the moment arrived and the crowd fell silent, she would reach for the switch.

Her tiny hand.

Her enormous courage.

And then—light.

Light blooming across the stone walls.

Light reflecting in her eyes.

Light filling the night sky with color, warmth, and wonder.

Light that would outlast the moment.

Light that would become a memory—a final, precious gift from a child who had spent her short life shining.

And long after the candles burn out, long after the songs fade, long after December has passed, people will still remember her name.

Margarett Travaille.

The little girl who lit the Castle.

The little girl who lit hearts.

The little girl who, even in the face of impossible darkness, chose to bring light.