Today, at 9:53 am, the funeral home called. They finally had everything they needed to release Zayden’s remains so he could come home. By 10:00 am, I was there, ready to bring him back. I thought I could handle this on my own, but I was wrong—so wrong. As I sat waiting for Karli, the support person, to bring him to me, the tears came, unstoppable and unrelenting. I couldn’t hold them back.
How could this be how 2025 ends? Your light, gone from this world forever? Why did your doctors miss so much when it mattered most? Why didn’t I push harder, demand more tests, question the false sense of security they gave us? These questions—so many questions—overwhelmed me, flooding every corner of my being. When Karli walked in, she didn’t speak. Instead, she held my hand tightly, letting me cry until I could gather myself, even if just barely. I signed the final forms, and then I brought you close to me. The urns I had chosen so carefully, the necklaces for each of us to keep you close to our hearts, and the box with some of your ashes to scatter at your life celebration—they were all ready. But as I walked out of the building, through the parking lot, and into my car, the tears returned, steady and unrelenting. I sat there for a long time, clutching the pieces of you that I could bring home. Tears of sadness, because it’s not fair you were taken from us. Tears of relief, because you wouldn’t spend another day in a cold, distant place—now you’d be home with us to welcome the new year.
In the quiet stillness of the car, I gripped the small urn that now held all that was left of you. My mind was filled with the life we should have shared—your first day of school, your first soccer goal, your laughter filling the house during the holidays. All those moments we were meant to have, now just dreams that will never come true. The pain was immense, but even in the heartache, I felt something else—a responsibility. A promise took shape in that moment. I promised to carry your memory forward, to let the world know how deeply you were loved. I’ll share your light, Zayden, and I’ll advocate for better care so no other family has to endure this pain. You are not just a memory, my sweet grandson, our larger than life, dragon slayer. You are a legacy. Your light will never fade, not as long as I have breath to keep it shining.
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