Falicia Hutchins
It has been a week now since Fiona left.
Life carried on around her family, but it didn’t feel real.
Every day passed like a blur, each hour dissolving into the next without meaning.
Her parents could not recall much from the last seven days; the details had vanished in a foggy haze of shock.
Life raced at breakneck speed around them, yet they felt rooted in one place, unable to grasp anything, trapped in the endless fog of grief.
It had been seven days since they last saw her smile.
Seven days since they held her close, felt the warmth of her tiny body against theirs, nursed her softly to sleep.
And still, the thought that it would be this way—forever, every week, every single day—was almost impossible to comprehend.
Each day felt like it carried them further away from her, and the world kept moving too fast for them to catch.
They should have been feeding her, changing her diaper, holding her as she fussed and yawned.
Instead, they found themselves dressing for a funeral and packing memories into a car, trying to carry pieces of her spirit with them.
They could not understand why life had to be so cruel.
Why this had happened to them, to their little Fiona.
They would never understand.
All they could do was grieve, to live each moment in the shadow of her absence, and to let her memory shine in the midst of the sorrow.
Eventually, they knew, they would be able to share other stories, to post about other things.
But for now, her little face remained everywhere, in every memory, every photograph, every thought.
Two weeks passed.
Two weeks since Fiona had to leave.
The sadness in her parents felt like it had stretched over a lifetime, yet somehow, it also felt like she had just been there.
They still listened for her as they drifted to sleep.
They still reached out instinctively to feed her, even upon waking.
They spoke of her every day.
They thought of her constantly.
Not a day had gone by without tears, yet they had managed to smile too, for the memories that remained, for the love that endured.
They hoped she was enjoying Neverland, flying safely among the fairies.
Her sister, Fable, warned her: “Fiona better be careful, flying with the fairies in Neverland!”
Her parents imagined Fiona laughing, dancing, and soaring above the clouds, just as they remembered her in life.
They missed her with every beat of their hearts.
One morning, they woke to see her name alongside Fable’s in some messages meant for both of their daughters.
It was just about flu shots, a mundane, everyday thing.
Yet seeing their names together like that—Fable and Fiona, side by side—brought a flood of emotion.
They remembered how the girls were supposed to grow up together, play together, share toys, chase each other around.
They were meant to be best friends for life.
Fable had been so eager to be a big sister.
Fiona had been so full of life, so sweet.
Finley, Fable, and Fiona—this trio had been their whole world.
Finley was supposed to have his army of sisters.
Fable was supposed to teach Fiona all about life, to share everything, to laugh and cry together.
But now, these little messages were all that remained.
A tiny, automated note about flu shots triggered a tidal wave of grief.
All the things Fiona would never do, all the moments she would never experience, all the ways her siblings would have to grow without her, piled up into a weight too heavy to bear.
It was so painfully unfair.
Her parents just wanted their baby back, wanted to hold her, to hear her giggle, to see her grow.
But they could only hold onto memories.
They could only imagine her in Neverland, playing among the fairies, safe and happy, even as their hearts ached with longing.
Fiona’s little life had been brief, but it had left a mark that would never fade.
Every smile, every giggle, every moment of joy she had shared became a treasure for her family.
Even in her absence, she taught them about courage, about love, about how deeply a small life could touch the hearts of many.
They would carry her spirit with them always.
Every day, every tear, every hug, every memory became a way to keep her alive in their hearts.
And though life would never feel the same, her presence would linger, like sunlight through clouds, gentle and unwavering.
Fiona, forever loved, forever missed, forever remembered.
Her tiny face, her laughter, her spirit, all woven into the fabric of her family’s life.
They would never stop thinking of her.
They would never stop missing her.
And in the quiet moments, when the world felt too loud, they would close their eyes and let the memories of her play like a movie, gentle and beautiful, keeping her close forever.
After Eight Months of Courage, Heaven Gained a Warrior Named July.1973

🌤️ July Dotson — May 25, 2019 – June 10, 2024
Forever 5. DIPG Warrior.
He came into this world on a warm May morning, a tiny miracle wrapped in laughter and light.
From the moment he opened his eyes, July Dotson radiated joy — a gentle, curious boy who loved to giggle, explore, and share everything with his little brother, Kolter.
He was sweet, kind, and thoughtful, the sort of child who made even strangers smile.
For four and a half precious years, July’s home was filled with laughter — forts made of blankets, stacks of storybooks, and endless races across the living room floor.
He loved cars, cartoons, and snuggling close for bedtime stories.
To everyone who met him, July was sunshine — bright, warm, and full of life.
But last year, the sunshine dimmed.
Eight months ago, the word “DIPG” entered their lives — a word no parent should ever have to hear.
A word that shattered their peace and replaced it with a fight they never imagined having to face.
From the start, July’s parents, Kevin and his wife, knew the odds were cruel.
Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma — an aggressive brain tumor with no cure.
Doctors spoke gently, but the truth hung heavy in the air.
Time was limited.
Treatment would be harsh.
Miracles were rare.
But July was rare, too.
He fought with courage that silenced fear.
He smiled through pain.
He brought joy to every sterile hospital room, every sleepless night.
And even when he couldn’t speak much anymore, his eyes still sparkled when his brother walked in the room.
Kolter was too young to understand it all, but he knew.
He knew his big brother was tired.
He knew the games grew shorter, the laughter softer.
He began to sit quietly beside him, sometimes resting his small hand on July’s arm, sometimes whispering things only brothers could understand.
Those were sacred moments — two souls bound by something deeper than words.
The final weeks were gentle and slow.
July’s body was growing weaker, but his spirit was still bright.
His parents sat beside him day and night, whispering prayers and lullabies.
Friends and clinicians came to help — to manage the medications, to give them moments of rest, to sit in silence when words failed.
For two nights, Kevin and his wife slept in their own bed while others watched over their boy.
It felt strange, and wrong, and merciful all at once.
They knew the end was close.
Each morning, they woke up wondering if it would be the day they said goodbye.
On that last morning, July was still sleeping peacefully.
The previous day had been hard — his medications had faltered, and his body had struggled.
Seeing him suffer was unbearable.
There are no words for the helplessness of watching your child in pain.
But that morning, the room was calm again.
Quiet.
Soft.
He was resting.
Breathing slow and steady.
His parents held his hands and prayed for peace.
In the hours that followed, time seemed to blur.
There were moments of conversation, gentle touches, shared memories, and quiet tears.
Kolter stayed close, climbing into the bed beside his brother.
No one told him what was happening, but he knew.
Children always know.
He pressed his cheek to July’s shoulder and didn’t move for a long time.
Then, just after 6 p.m., heaven opened its doors.
The room grew still.
And July — sweet, beautiful July — slipped away from this world and into the arms of Jesus.
There was no pain.
No struggle.
Just peace.
A breath, a sigh, a stillness — and then the gentle certainty that he was home.
It was, as his parents later said, an almost perfect transition — as if heaven itself had reached down and carried him the rest of the way.
The ache in their hearts was immediate and deep, yet strangely accompanied by a quiet awe.
Their son was free.
No more pain.
No more suffering.
Only joy everlasting.
That night, as the house grew quiet, Kevin and his wife sat together and prayed.
They thanked God for every single day they had been given — every giggle, every hug, every silly joke that July had shared.
They remembered the hospital stays, the long nights when July would fall asleep in their arms, his small fingers tangled in theirs.
They remembered how St. Jude had cared for them — how they never saw a bill, never felt alone, never had to fight without help.
They remembered the nurses who became family, the friends who stood guard through the nights, the community that prayed without ceasing.
Every piece of that journey, as hard as it was, had been wrapped in love.
Now, that love remains — not as something past, but as something eternal.
Because July’s story didn’t end at 6:00 p.m. on June 10th.
It only changed chapters.
His light continues to shine in every person he touched — in the faith he inspired, in the compassion he awakened, in the tiny acts of kindness done in his memory.
Through him, hearts have softened.
Through him, lives have turned toward grace.
There are days when Kevin and his wife still can’t breathe under the weight of loss.
Days when grief feels like gravity itself — pulling them down, anchoring them to memories that hurt and heal all at once.
But they also know that heaven is real.
That their son is whole again.
That he is laughing and running and basking in a love beyond measure.
They will carry him in their hearts for the rest of their days.
Until that day comes when they see him again — when the waiting ends, and joy begins anew.
Sweet July.
Forever five.
Forever free.
Forever home.