To the mom sitting in that tiny hospital meeting room,
This is terrifying. And it’s not okay. It will never feel okay. Let yourself cry. Let yourself scream. Let out every ounce of fear and grief. Breathe. Just breathe, mama. Take a moment to anchor yourself, because you’ve just heard words no parent should ever hear: “I’m sorry. Eva isn’t going to make it out of this.”
You came to that room expecting hope. You were ready to hear that your little girl would go into surgery to stop the bleeding in her brain. But instead, the words hit like a punch to the chest: catastrophic, irreversible, too much damage. Your mind feels numb, buzzing, refusing to process what’s happening. And that numbness? It’s normal. It’s how your brain is protecting you in the midst of unimaginable shock.
Stay with her, mama. Stay with Eva. I know it’s scary to be in that hospital room full of IVs, monitors, and tubes. I know it feels overwhelming. But she needs you now more than ever. Hold her hand, kiss her cheeks, whisper to her—you are exactly what she needs. Your baby girl taught you how strong you are. She taught you how to fight, and now she needs your courage. You can do this. Just breathe.
Right now, it may feel impossible to see beyond those hospital walls, beyond the isolation gowns and the bustle of the nurses. One day, though, you will. One day, you will see the beauty in every action of the team that cared for her. One day, you will remember the respect and tenderness they offered while she took her last breath. One day, you will understand why the room emptied until it was just you, your baby, and a single doctor. One day, you will forgive yourself for moments of anger at being “alone” because you will realize Eva only needed you in those final moments. One day, you may even find gratitude for the bluntness of the neurosurgeon, for the fact that your little girl passed in your arms, not on an operating table. One day, you will see how brave and strong you were that day.
Lean on your husband. Lean on your own mama. Let them hold you up when you feel like you might fall. Breathe, mama. Trust in the truth in your heart: you did everything you could. You were everything Eva needed. You are enough. Don’t give in to guilt. Don’t blame yourself. Be gentle with your own heart. This is just the beginning of a long road, and it’s okay to take it one breath at a time. Feel everything—every tear, every pang of grief, every heartbreak. Hiding your feelings won’t help you heal. You will learn the meaning of “making time to grieve,” and though it may feel overwhelming now, one day it will no longer consume every second.
This is not your fault. Say it to yourself. Repeat it when the world tries to place blame. Listen to the doctors, the nurses, your mom—when they say, “This is not your fault”—because it is true. You are a devoted mother facing the worst hand imaginable, and yet, you are doing it. People will say things in the days ahead that you won’t remember, words that will blur together in your mind. But somewhere within the noise, someone will speak a truth so profound it will give you strength. Let your support system love you. Let them hold you up. You don’t have to carry this alone.
Eva knows you love her. She knows you would have traded places if you could. But she wouldn’t have wanted that. She wanted you—her mama—every day of her life. Let that truth be your comfort in this unbearable pain. Seek the small joys, even if they come slowly. They are there, waiting to remind you that love and life still exist alongside grief.
To the mama in that tiny hospital room, I know this is hell. I know it feels endless. But I also know this: you are stronger than this hell. You and Jordan will survive. Every day, you did your best, and Eva knew it. Breathe, mama—one breath at a time. The days ahead will be hard, but you will find courage you didn’t know you had. You will reach milestones—one month, six months, a year—and meet them with the strength of a lion. Love yourself. Be kind to yourself.
Love, Eva’s Mommy, 13 months after Heaven called.
Eva Alice Peters, Forever Two, Forever Loved.
Eva was diagnosed with Immune Thrombocytopenic Purpura (ITP) in January 2018, a rare autoimmune disease that prevents the blood from clotting properly. This made her vulnerable to serious, life-threatening bleeding. For a brief but heroic two months, Eva fought with courage and grace, offering her radiant smile to everyone she met. Her family wishes the world to know how brave she was and continues to share her smiles to keep her light alive.
