The words spill from her heart, trembling and raw.
She has written countless updates over the months — some filled with hope, others with fear — but never one like this.
This one feels final.
It feels like a whisper before the silence.
“I think that my baby… my beautiful, brave, hilarious, strong boy will soon return to his heavenly home.”
Even as she types the words, her hands shake.
Her heart refuses to accept it.
How could it?
Branson — the boy who made strangers believe in miracles, who faced pain with laughter, who brightened hospital rooms with his jokes and crooked grin — is slipping away.A boy too perfect for this cruel world.
Every moment feels fragile now.
Every sound, every breath, every rise and fall of his tiny chest feels sacred — like time itself is holding its breath.
“I can’t breathe under the weight of it,” she writes.
And anyone who’s ever loved deeply enough to lose will understand exactly what she means.
The machines hum softly beside him, lights blinking, monitors tracing the rhythm of a fading heartbeat.She holds his hand and feels the warmth of his skin, memorizing the shape of each finger, the freckle near his knuckle, the tiny scar from when he learned to ride his scooter.Every detail burns into her memory like sunlight through glass.
They have fought.
Oh, how they have fought.
Through nights that never seemed to end.
Through prayers whispered into hospital pillows.Through the cruel arithmetic of hope and loss.
They’ve begged.
They’ve pleaded.
They’ve believed with everything inside them that a miracle might still come.
And still, the question comes like a knife:Why him? Why us?
If love could save him, he would never know pain.
If faith could heal him, he’d be running through the yard right now, chasing the family dog.If sacrifice could change fate, she’d take his place without hesitation — trade her life for his a thousand times over.
