Saoirse

One year of grief and love

Dear Saoirse, One year. One full turn of the earth around the sun since you came into our arms and changed everything we thought we knew about love, about loss, about what it means to be alive. The days before your birthday were hard. There were conflicts between us, uncertainty, and a heaviness that we couldn’t quite name. And then, quietly, something shifted. Because two weeks before today, mommy’s body started to remember. Every kick. Every hiccup from last year, this time, returning in her body’s memory. The confrontation with that reality was paralyzing at first — there was nothing to do but feel it all over again. But today. Today was different. We began the morning with a man who channels plants — who listens to them and connects people to their spirit plants, the way others speak of spirit animals. We had come with something sacred: your placenta, which mommy has held onto, waiting for the right moment and the right place to return it to the earth. We wanted him to find a plant for you, little selkie. But he told us gently that because you are not in this realm, he couldn’t reach you through the plants. Instead, he found one for mommy, and one for daddy. We stood before them and felt them working — quietly, powerfully — like they were charging something that had run low inside us. And then we walked to the labyrinth. It’s a beautiful thing — a path of stones laid out in a spiral in nature, one and a half kilometers altogether, meant to bring you back to yourself. We walked it with Diuna at our side, and the bees were buzzing, and a butterfly drifted through, and somewhere in the middle of the bushes there was a gardener, hidden away, completely at peace with his own quiet work. The whole place felt like being held in the womb of mother earth. Daddy felt you there, Saoirse. All of a sudden you were so close — laughing, walking alongside him, saying daddy. He hasn’t felt joy like that in a very long time. It arrived without warning and without permission, the way joy sometimes does after a long grief — just there, full and real. For the first time in a year, something that had been opposite to joy began to release. Mommy felt you differently — through the earth itself. She could hear the labyrinth speaking, feel the presence of mother earth and you together, as if you were both whispering to her at the same time. Directions. Inspirations. A sense of knowing what to do now that hadn’t been there before. And for the first time in this whole year, mommy could give love to her womb. Could honor her body for what it did — for bringing you here, for the miracle of that. There hadn’t been space for that before. Today, there was. On the way home, we walked through a corridor of tall trees. Mommy stopped to hug one. It told her it was honored — honored to feel her presence. We don’t need you to believe that the way we believe it. We only want you to know that the world was speaking to us today in every direction we turned. And then opa and oma arrived at the door. They brought a big Easter candle — the biggest one, the kind that lights a whole church. Mommy had been talking about wanting a big candle all day long. She had said she wanted one that could burn for three full days, from your birthday to the day you left. They didn’t know that. They just came, and they brought it. That is how this day has been, Saoirse. Everything arriving exactly when it needed to. A year of this has taught us things we could not have learned any other way. To the parents who are reading this at day one, week one, month one — we want to say this: there is no manual. Grief will surprise you, constantly, in ways you cannot prepare for. It will be always in the background whether you want it there or not, and it will come in all kinds of forms — as rage, as numbness, as a thought you cannot place, as a memory surfacing in your body without warning. When that happens, know that it is grief. And it will wait for you until you are ready. Allow the feelings when they come. Not beyond what you can hold — you cannot jump higher than yourself, and sometimes you need rest, nourishment, ordinary life rolling forward. That is not failure. But sooner or later, the feelings will return. And through them, through that very pain, you stay connected to your child. The pain is not separate from the love. It is the love, finding its way through. Our grief is not the same. Mommy goes deep — free-diving, all the way to the bottom. Daddy’s grief comes with a delay, builds quietly, then arrives in waves that sometimes knock him off his feet. There is no one right way. Give each other space to grieve as you must. What we know after one year is this: there is a difference between knowing and believing. Daddy knows you are here, Saoirse. He has always known. The believing comes and goes — some days it is close, some days it hides. But the knowing holds. And it is the knowing that carries us. We are proud. Of ourselves, of each other, of the wobbly, chaotic, difficult, beautiful year we have somehow moved through. We are proud parents. That does not need a child in a room to be true. You are with us — in the labyrinth, in the trees, in the rabbit who always finds his way home, in the candle burning now on our table. Happy birthday, our little selkie. With all our love, Mommy and Daddy

Eight months of bittersweet reflection

Today is January 8th, 2026. Eight months exactly since our daughter was born. Eight months since we held her, loved her, and said goodbye. It’s a special day. A magic day. Bittersweet. Heavy and cold. We find ourselves thinking about what eight months means. Sitting. Bidding. Crawling. Maybe even standing up, starting to walk—Sebastiaan was a fast walker, standing early. Discovering everything. Trying to eat everything. Nothing would be safe. Nothing. God, we miss that so much. We miss what we were never given the chance to experience. We miss the exhaustion. The heavy boobs full of milk from sleepless nights. We miss being over-worried about every little thing—every cold, every flu. Does she eat enough? Does she poop enough? Does she burp enough? All the rashes. Maria creating special creams for her delicate skin. Making perfect baths—Sebastiaan would want to share his hot baths with her, but Maria would definitely make sure the temperature wasn’t his too-hot kind, but perfect for Saoirse. Just right. Then putting her on Sebastiaan’s chest afterward. We would have taken care of every detail. Every physical need. We would have loved it. But for some reason—no, not for some reason. Because it IS painful. It IS raw. And it’s beautiful at the same time. But it’s distant now. Not so fresh anymore, though it still is fresh. This is the first time we’re daring to speak about the vision of having Saoirse here, truly being her parents in all the exhausting, wonderful, mundane ways. There’s something about crossing into 2026 that’s shifted things. It was just eight days ago that the year changed, but suddenly she’s “last year” now. That agreement we all make—that the year is changing—it’s nothing special really. But still, it feels different. Something is moving. Time got magically stretched even though it was just days ago. We want to keep her with us, moving forward into this new year. And yet… she stayed there. Her memories are there, in 2025. We are here, in 2026. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard. Why this feels different than the other monthly milestones. Eight months. That’s almost a whole pregnancy. Nine months ago, Saoirse was still in Maria’s belly. That’s crazy. We’re planning to go to Poland soon to visit Maria’s grandmother, who is at the edge of life. She’s strong—she’s always been strong—but weaker every day. The flame is getting smaller. There’s confusion now, a loss of time and place. It’s a different kind of death approaching. A slow one. And we realize: death has become our friend. Somehow. Maybe because death came and sat on our chest for so long that we needed to make friends with it. We had to. It’s not scary anymore. Definitely not scary. There’s something magical about it, actually. Maria really wants to talk with her grandmother about how she’s looking at death, to have this opportunity while there’s still time. Because Saoirse is on the other side now. And for Maria, there’s this feeling that part of her is there too. On the other side. With Saoirse. With what’s coming. Eight months. Almost a whole pregnancy. A whole lifetime. No time at all. We carry her forward, even as we move into a year where she never drew breath. Even as we befriend the death that took her and approaches others we love. Even as we miss every single thing about the life we never got to live with her. Our beautiful girl. Our Saoirse.

Grieving as a Father: Seven Months After Losing Saoirse

Grieving as a Father: Seven Months After Losing Saoirse It’s been seven months since Saoirse left us. Seven months since I became a father to a daughter who lived for three days. And I’m still figuring out what that means. The first thing I want other fathers to know is this: grief comes with a delay. At least it did for me. I cried. I grieved. I felt things. But now, seven months in, I’m realizing that all the grieving I’ve done before – all the baggage I was carrying around – has been amplified by losing my daughter. It’s like Saoirse’s death turned up the volume on everything I hadn’t fully dealt with yet. The Body Knows Grief lives in my body in a way I’ve never experienced before. There’s this ball of energy inside me that wants to get out, and I can feel every muscle tensing throughout my whole body. This isn’t like regular tension where you feel it in your shoulders or your stomach. This is different. It starts in my gut, sometimes moves to my chest – in the beginning, my chest felt like it was literally on fire. Everything comes at once. Your whole body is on fire and there’s nothing you can do but feel it. When that tension comes, when that energy needs to release, I often end up in bed crying, or I need to get out into nature and just… let it process. In the beginning there was anger. Now it’s mostly sadness, pain, and this unease feeling that’s trying to tell me something. The hard part is we’re never taught how to listen to our feelings, how to actually BE with them. And I believe that’s one of the most crucial things about being human. The Escape Route After Saoirse died, I threw myself into work. I found a job as a web developer and went full on – all or nothing, which is how I operate. Part of it was grief, part of it is just how I function. But looking back now, I can see it was an escape route. When things get too big to feel, I pour all that fire into something else instead. Here’s what I wish someone had told me: you can’t outrun this. Your grief will wait for you. It will build up. And if you keep pushing it aside, it will explode. Mine has, a couple of times. The grief leaks out in other ways – the overwork, the body tension, the intensity of everything. Putting Your Own Grief Aside I’ve noticed I sometimes put my grief in the background because Maria, my wife, has more needs. She’s Saoirse’s mother. Her body carried our daughter. Her grief is… I don’t know, more visible? More immediate? But when I put mine aside, it doesn’t disappear. It builds up. And that’s not healthy for anyone. Fathers need to grieve too. We just do it differently. I’m still figuring out what kind of help I need, what support looks like for me. That’s always been a journey – finding the right people. I do a lot of self-work. I’m aware. But what I really need is help going deeper into my feelings, being guided to really FEEL them instead of analyzing them or working around them. Becoming a Father to Myself Here’s the thing that surprised me most: I became a father when Saoirse was born, and I’m still a father even though she died. But there’s no daughter to take care of in a physical way. So what does my fatherhood look like now? I’ve realized that what I would have poured into Saoirse – all that care, that nurturing, that protection – I’m now giving to myself. I’m fathering myself the way I would have fathered her. Taking care of myself. Setting boundaries. Letting go of old fears. Standing up for myself. This isn’t selfish. This is what she would have needed from me, and it’s what I need from me. There’s a power in me that has been awakened through this loss. I can feel it even if I can’t name it. It’s like I’m a hot air balloon that wants to rise, but I need to throw off all the sandbags first – all the old baggage, the fears, the patterns that don’t serve me anymore. The Amplification of Everything Since Saoirse died, everything has gotten more intense. All my feelings are amplified. And honestly? It’s great. I mean that. It allows me to feel so much more, to move through life with more authenticity. Yes, it means there are moments when my feelings take over and I make different choices, choices that don’t always go as planned. But then I realize I’m not sure I wanted the “plan” in the first place. Fears used to make me do things, make choices I didn’t really want. Now there’s no chance to move in a direction that isn’t true. When that unease feeling comes up – when my gut tells me I’m not in the right place, that I’m not taking care of myself, that I’m moving where I shouldn’t go – I cannot ignore it anymore. It will literally crumble me if I try. And that’s good. That’s my body, my daughter, life itself telling me: pay attention. What I’d Tell Other Fathers If you’re reading this in those first raw weeks after losing your child, here’s what I wish someone had told me: Take care of yourself. Ensure that you are nurtured. If you don’t find anyone who does it for you, then really take care of yourself. Set your personal boundaries. Make them strong enough that you can stay in your bubble while the world spins around you. Don’t make decisions because you think it’s “best” or because everyone says it’s what you should do. Everyone wants the best for you, but you have to make decisions from where you ARE. That’s incredibly difficult because all your

Between Light and Dark: Five Months of Grieving Our Daughter

Five months and two days. That’s how long it’s been since Saoirse left her body. That’s how long we’ve been learning to live in a world where our daughter exists everywhere and nowhere at once. The Pictures Today we took a significant step. We looked at the photographs. There were three sets of images, each capturing different moments of Saoirse’s brief time with us. The first were taken by Annette, a nurse at Radboud Hospital in Nijmegen. The second came from a professional photographer with the Make a Memory foundation, who offered her services free of charge with such gentleness and grace. The third set we took ourselves as we prepared Saoirse’s body for her farewell ceremony. Looking at these pictures created distance and closeness simultaneously. They’re memories frozen in time, yet they bring us right back to those precious, painful moments. What struck us most was a simple realization: we wish we had taken more. Every photograph tells part of the story, brings us closer to those moments we can never return to in body, only in memory. There’s one photo in particular—Sebastiaan taking a selfie with Saoirse’s body. Someone might say that’s creepy. But when you’ve lost a child, when all you have left are these moments captured in pixels and paper, you understand. These are the only times we can be face to face, skin to skin with our beautiful daughter. These images aren’t morbid; they’re sacred. The Rollercoaster That Never Stops This grief is a rollercoaster that will most likely never stop. But it changes. Five months feels profoundly different from four months, which felt different from one month. The transformation happens slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet when you look back, it’s massive. I feel like a different person now. There’s more darkness around me—not bad energy, but the energy of death itself. It’s the opposite of light, the reverse side of the same coin. And because my daughter exists in that darkness, I find myself balanced between worlds, making conscious decisions each day to step toward the light while honoring the part of me that died when she did. Before and After There was a before, and there is an after. This is undeniable. But strangely, after Saoirse’s passing, there is somehow more life. I cannot explain this paradox, but I can feel it. A door opened that I didn’t know existed, revealing dimensions of existence I’d never touched before. The difference between living and dying becomes startlingly clear when you stand at that threshold. When you lose someone so close—especially your child—you come to the very edge of death. You can almost see what’s on the other side. You can definitely feel it, because that’s where your baby is. Accepting death, truly accepting it, changes everything. The border between life and death, between light and dark, is profoundly thin. And when you start looking beyond it, there’s something attractive there, something magnetic. Signs and Presence Today, as we looked at the photographs, we lit a candle. The calendar fell from the wall. Both of us felt Saoirse’s presence in our house. Then I smelled her. Really smelled her, that aroma, that essence I was so afraid of losing. She came because she can, because she is everything now. She appears in important moments: as a stream of light through the forest, as the sensation of her holding my hand, as her touch in my hair. One morning we woke to find tiny feathers scattered across our garden, all over the garden as if an angel had flown overhead and sprinkled them everywhere. To this day, I cannot explain where they came from. You just know. There are no doubts about these small miracles. She wants us to know she’s still here, still in touch, just in a new, strange way. We balance between worlds, looking for signs from the other side. It’s complicated to explain, but anyone who has experienced this kind of loss might understand. It’s something you feel rather than think. The Photographs: Before and After The Make a Memory photographer did two sessions with us. The difference between them tells its own story. In the first session, Saoirse was still breathing with the help of machines. All those tubes and wires—we called them “the spaghetti”—connected her to this world. In those images, you can see us as proud parents. There’s pain, yes, but also something else: hope, perhaps, or not yet knowing what would happen. A tiny wish that maybe she would start breathing on her own, that her little heart would keep beating without intervention. I always believed it was her choice whether to stay or not. The body made its choice, but miracles do exist. Though now I wonder: what is a miracle, really? She could have chosen to recover, but she made a different choice. Or perhaps she always made the same choice, and we just couldn’t see it yet. What Does Recovery Mean? I had a profound conversation with a dear friend from Finland who was present throughout my pregnancy and when Saoirse left her body. She offered a reflection that continues to reshape my understanding: Look at this world. Look at the struggles people face, the wars, the suffering, these eternal bodies of ours that can disappear in an instant. Life is beautiful and joyful, yes, but it can also be incredibly tough. If you have the choice to not enter a body, to not limit yourself to physicality, but instead to be everything—isn’t that the upgraded choice? To go from something limited to something infinite, from contained to boundless. But from a human perspective, from a mother’s perspective, this understanding is almost impossible to fully embrace. The Love She Brought Saoirse came and brought love. So much love that perhaps she couldn’t contain it all in one small body. When she lay in the hospital, things began to make different sense to me. It’s hard to explain in words, but I felt an initiation happening—something

Four Months Since We Held You

Four Months Later: Swimming in Different Currents An update from Maria & Sebastiaan Dear friends who have been following Saoirse’s story, It has been four months since we last updated this sacred space dedicated to our little selkie. Four months since we last held Saoirse’s beautiful, perfect body. We miss her with every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of every day. Time moves strangely in grief. Some days feel endless, others disappear entirely. But we promised to share this journey authentically, and today we want to tell you where we are now—how we’re learning to swim in this ocean of love and loss, each in our own way. The Ocean Has No Rules One of the most profound discoveries of these months has been realizing that grief has no manual, no timeline, no “right way” to navigate it. Everyone swims in the same ocean of loss, but every swimming style is completely different. Even the two of us—partners in this journey, parents of the same precious daughter—find ourselves moving through these waters in entirely different ways. Maria: I think I’m free diving. I stay so much underwater because there, my daughter belongs. And when I come out, I don’t want to be here so often. So often, I want to be under water. For me, talking gives me the possibility to stay connected to the outer world. To explain, to analyze. Talking is my way of clearing my thoughts with words. Sometimes I need to tell the story again and again—what others might call “looping the trauma”—but this is how I process, how I work through what happened. Sebastiaan: For me, these last four months have definitely been a roller coaster. I’ve lost myself, found myself, lost myself again. Sometimes things trigger emotions that well up in my body—I don’t know where they need to go. I feel them building into stress, then I get grumpy, then comes an outburst of tears, and I think I’ve moved a step further in the process. But I’m still not sure how to tap into the process itself. My swimming style has been more like floating. Staying in one spot, sometimes drowning for a bit, then getting up again trying to maintain a steady course. It doesn’t always work. Often I wake up and feel like the day is too much, and it’s just the beginning. I need more silence. Words don’t come easily in talking—they come in silence, and they can come in writing, though I haven’t written much these last four months. We’re learning that both ways work. There’s no good or wrong way to grieve. Sometimes our different styles help us mirror and learn from each other. Sometimes they create distance. The conversations can be difficult, but overall, they’re good. We’re both trying to get where we need to be, just in our own time and our own way. New Life in Our Healing In the midst of this deep grief, we’ve welcomed new life into our home—two beautiful souls who we believe Saoirse would have loved dearly. First came Bilbo (his name was Rambo before, but he’s definitely a Bilbo—like Bilbo Baggins from Lord of the Rings, the traveler). He’s a giant German rabbit who lives in our garden, fluffy and so incredibly soft. He’s very gentle with children, and Saoirse’s cousin Imara loves him too. We can imagine Saoirse touching him with her little hands, those beautiful hands we kissed so many times. Then we drove over 1,000 kilometers to Poland to rescue a dog from a shelter in the Polish mountains. She’s six months old—a little bit older than Saoirse would be now—and there’s something special about her connection to our daughter. Maybe we’re being fanciful, but it feels like these two souls have some connection we can’t fully explain. She was called Rosa but we found a name more suitable and called her Diuna. Maria: This little dog has so much energy that I’m forced to take care of myself—I have to walk her in the forest. And every time I go into the forest, I feel Saoirse’s presence. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but I can feel her. I can feel how sometimes she holds my hand. Sometimes she comes in the way of a butterfly or birds. Sometimes it’s just the wind, but I can really feel her presence in everything. I’m grateful for that. We are in touch. But it’s still very difficult. I wish so badly that she could really be here in her physical body with us. There’s not even one second when I don’t think or feel her. Returning to the Hospital: A Sacred Reunion Today we had a profound experience—we returned to the hospital where Saoirse was born and where she spent her precious days with us. We met with Dr. William, who welcomed Saoirse into this world, and the beautiful nurse who wrote Saoirse’s diary in both English and Dutch so we could both understand. Maria: The moment we walked into that big corridor, the flashbacks came back—not traumatizing ones, but very intense, very deep. I remembered especially the moment when my parents arrived the night before Saoirse passed away. They drove 12 hours nonstop from Poland when we told them Saoirse most likely wouldn’t survive. They’re in their seventies, but they just got in the car and drove through the night. The nurses allowed them to come into the intensive care unit even though it was restricted. Sebastian was pushing me in a wheelchair through that corridor—it was so empty, half-dark, around 11:30 at night. And there were my parents coming toward us. It was such a big scene, and today it all came back. But seeing the medical staff again was like seeing family. The nurse who wrote Saoirse’s beautiful poem didn’t need to be there for us, but she chose to stay beyond her shift because she wanted to be there. They weren’t strangers—they were the people who spent the most time with our daughter

May 15th, 2025 – Thursday

Dear Saoirse I am writing this after the ceremony because towards the ceremony everything got more hectic. The last things needed to be arranged and we were living in a blur of preparations and emotions. Your mother made a lot of milk for you and we took a moment to bless your precious body with this milk. We put it on your head, arms, legs and your body. Your body changed a bit in color when we did this – a gentle reminder of the connection between you and mama that continues even now. Then we dressed you in a “hippie dress” with flowers, and to make you even more loveable, we put on a blue hat which made you look like an old school plane pilot. You made us smile in that moment – our little aviator ready for flight. We spent precious time in bed with you, first alone with daddy, then with the three of us together as a family. Mommy and daddy needed to leave for a little bit to take care of final arrangements, and oma looked after you. She also had a smile when she saw you dressed up like this – you brought joy even in our deepest sorrow. This was our last night together, the three of us. We held onto every moment, knowing tomorrow would bring our goodbye. But tonight, you were simply our daughter, our little selkie, peaceful and beautiful in our arms. Love always, Mommy and Daddy

May 14th, 2025 – Wednesday

Dear Saoirse Today has been a gentle balance of being cared for and caring for all the details of your farewell ceremony. Friends and family have surrounded us with love, massage, bringing food, offering help, and bringing so many gifts for you. You’re space here in the house is getting more colorful every day.  We are overwhelmed by the financial support we have received, I’m beyond words, thank you soo incredibly much for your support, love, kisses, hugs and tremendous gratitude. In the preparations today, we have created something beautiful for you. We designed a very special card that reflects your place in our hearts – we will share it on Friday. The process of creating something meaningful was taxing but soo worth it. Late into the evening, mommy and daddy found themselves recording a song together. This creative connection brought us back to things we cherish and love but haven’t done for a long time. It’s remarkable how even in this deepest sorrow, you bring us back to parts of ourselves that had been set aside. This is your gift to us, little one. You spent precious time on mommy’s chest today, twice feeling her heartbeat against your peaceful form. For hours, the three of us lay together in bed – a family complete, if only for these fleeting days. We are grateful beyond words for this time with you. These quiet moments of connection are treasures we will carry forever. It’s interesting to observe how the body and mind become disconnected for a mother in grief. Mommy’s body still needs the physical connection with you, Saoirse, because it doesn’t receive the information from the mind. These moments when you rest against her heart help bridge that gap – a sacred space where love transcends understanding. Now we are going to sleep, carrying you in our hearts through the night. Tomorrow brings more preparations, but tonight, we rest in the simple knowledge that you are here with us, our beautiful little selkie. Love always, Mommy and Daddy

May 13th, 2025 – Tuesday

Today was filled with both purpose and emotion as we continued planning for Saoirse’s farewell ceremony. Our home welcomed our beautiful midwife Marley and intern Tess, both of whom were present during those precious and challenging moments when Saoirse came into our lives. Their visit brought a gentle connection between then and now, helping to weave together the threads of Saoirse’s brief but profound journey. In the quiet moments between planning, we created something tangible to hold onto. We made casts of Saoirse’s tiny feet and hands – delicate impressions that will later become lasting keepsakes, perhaps a necklace or another cherished memento. It’s remarkable how these simple shapes hold so much love and meaning, capturing forever the perfect detail of her being. The farewell ceremony for our little selkie will take place on Friday, May 16th at 11:00 AM at Crematorium Beuningen. For those unable to attend in person but wishing to join us in spirit, a live stream will be available. We’ll post the link here as soon as it’s arranged, allowing our extended circle of love to participate from afar. There remains much to do in these coming days – selecting the music, designing meaningful graphics for her ceremony, and attending to the many details that will honor her memory. Though the tasks are many, each one is approached with love, as every choice is a way of expressing what words alone cannot convey. Thank you for continuing to ride these waves with us.

May 12th, 2025 – Monday

Dear Saoirse Today we have planned our ceremony with you to say goodbye on Friday in the crematorium. It felt both surreal and important to organize these moments that will honor your brief but profound presence in our lives. Daddy had to go to the municipality to sign you in. This was a very odd thing to do because he needed to sign you in in Oss and at the same time send a document of your passing to the municipality in Nijmegen. These formal requirements feel so strange when compared to the deep emotions we’re experiencing, but they are part of acknowledging that you were here. We received so much love again today, so many beautiful people reached out and surrounded us with care. We went through a deep healing thanks to our loving friends. Their support helps us navigate these difficult days, and we feel you in every kind word and gesture. A funny note today is that daddy wanted to blow out a candle but that was surely not what you needed to be done because his hair caught fire and the candle is still burning! Daddy lost a bit of his mustache too! Perhaps you were sending a little reminder that your light should keep shining, or maybe you were giving us a moment of unexpected laughter in these heavy days. Tonight we will choose the music and design a beautiful card for you. We want every detail to reflect the love we feel and the special place you hold in our hearts. Selecting songs that speak to your spirit and creating a card that captures your essence feels like another way to honor you. With endless love, Mommy and Daddy

May 11th, 2025 – Sunday

Dear Saoirse Yesterday we have brought you home. We have driven you ourselves by car. Your body was loosing color, we made a beautiful bed for you and mommy and daddy had a very needed night sleep. This morning you have been made very pretty by balming your body. Now when I look at you, you look so calm and peaceful, as if you are simply sleeping. We are lighting candles and come to see you and kiss you every now and then.