At 4:01 p.m. that day, her mother watched her baby whisper “I love you, Mama” — and then drift away, still smiling, as if heaven had opened just for her.

Stage 5 Wilms Tumor.
It had filled both of her kidneys, spread to her lungs, and stolen what no illness should ever touch — a child’s chance to grow up.
For a year, Scarlett fought.
Chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries — one after another.
Her body grew weaker, but her eyes still shone with light.
Her laughter, though faint, still filled the room.
Until it didn’t anymore…
The full story is in the comments below.

Five Years After Goodbye — A Mother Still Looks for Her Daughter in Every Rainbow.2066

When Scarlett Rose LaCount came into the world on a warm May evening in 2016, she brought with her a light that changed everything.
She was tiny, blonde, full of laughter, and always in motion — a little whirlwind of love.

Her mother remembers that moment clearly, after twenty-one long hours of labor: the first cry, the first breath, the instant and unexplainable bond that made every struggle worth it.

Scarlett was joy itself.

She was peace in the chaos, the peacemaker of her little world.

But that light would face a battle no child should ever know.

On July 30th, 2019, when Scarlett was just three years old, her parents heard the words that no mother or father should ever have to hear —

Stage 5 Wilms Tumor.
Cancer.
Multiple tumors in both kidneys.
Spots on her lungs.
An entire vocabulary of fear that had never belonged in a child’s life.

The very next day, Scarlett began treatment.

She was so small, so fragile, and yet she faced the hospital halls like a warrior in pigtails.
The chemo hit her hard.

She stopped eating, lost weight, and her once rosy cheeks turned pale.

Every treatment seemed to take another piece of her childhood away.
Her parents watched helplessly, trying to hold on to hope while the world blurred into tubes, monitors, and beeping machines.

Then came January 2020 — another surgery.
Doctors removed tumors from her right kidney.
Scarlett spent days in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, her tiny body connected to wires and monitors.

And yet, in just one week, she surprised everyone — sitting up, smiling faintly, ready to go home.
A few days later, the CT scan showed something remarkable: the tumors had shrunk.

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Hope flickered again.

In March 2020, she began radiation therapy.
Day after day, she fought through exhaustion and nausea.
And when she finally finished on April 2nd, she got to do something every child in the cancer ward dreams of — she rang the bell.

The sound echoed through the hallway, full of victory, full of light.
Her family cried, clapped, and believed, for just a moment, that maybe the storm was over.

But life, cruel and unpredictable, had one more test.

Just one day after finishing radiation, Scarlett was rushed back into surgery — her third one — because of a dangerous bowel obstruction.

Doctors moved fast, and by grace and strength, she made it through again.

Her recovery was quick, almost miraculous.
But her body was tired.

In June 2020, her doctors said the words her parents feared the most — palliative care.
The fight was coming to an end.

There were no more cures, no more treatments left to try.

And yet, even as her body weakened, Scarlett’s spirit never did.
She smiled, played when she could, and comforted those who were supposed to comfort her.

At just four years old, she carried a grace far beyond her years.

On July 31st, 2020, exactly one year after her diagnosis, Scarlett took her last breath.
It was 4:01 p.m.

Her mother remembers every second.
One moment, Scarlett looked up and whispered, “I love you, Mama.”
The next, she lay peacefully, a faint smile still on her lips — as if she was already seeing heaven.

Her heart stopped, but her mother’s did not.
It kept beating, slower, heavier, with a piece missing that would never return.
Scarlett’s little sister, Annabel, would grow up hearing stories about her — the girl with sunshine hair, the one who loved rainbows and laughter.

Now, five years later, Scarlett’s mother writes:
“1,827 days. That’s how long it’s been since you left us.
You took my next breath with you.
I still get angry. I still cry. I still wish you were here.”

She has learned that grief doesn’t fade — it becomes part of you.
She has learned that people mean well, but sometimes words hurt more than silence.
She no longer shows her emotions openly because the world can be unkind.
But when the house is quiet and the memories flood in, she lets herself break a little — because that’s when she feels closest to Scarlett.

She remembers everything:
The sound of her giggle.
The feel of her hand.
The way she loved to talk to everyone and make peace when others argued.
The way her little legs used to run through the house, her cheeks still round and rosy before the sickness came.

Most people only remember the hospital photos — the bald head, the mask, the IV lines.
But her mother remembers the girl before cancer — the one full of mischief and light.
That’s the Scarlett she keeps alive.

“Time heals all wounds,” people say.
But some wounds don’t heal — they just learn to live inside you.
Every July, when the days grow long and heavy, her mother feels the ache grow sharper.
Every rainbow after a storm feels like Scarlett’s hello.
Every golden sunset feels like her smile.

At times, she’s angry.
At times, she questions God.
And then, somehow, peace finds her again — the quiet knowing that her little girl is whole, healed, and happy, somewhere far beyond pain.

She says softly, “I’ve been without you longer than I had you, and that’s not okay.”
But even through grief, she thanks God for every memory — for the laughter, the hugs, the nights spent whispering “I love you” in the dark.
Because love like that doesn’t end.
It changes form, but it never disappears.

Scarlett’s story is more than tragedy — it’s testimony.
A reminder that even the smallest souls can leave the biggest marks.
That sometimes the brightest lights burn for only a little while, but their glow never truly fades.

Now, her family looks for her in every rainbow, every butterfly, every beam of sunlight that breaks through a cloudy sky.
They still say her name every day.
They still whisper goodnight.
Because love doesn’t stop at heaven’s door — it stretches beyond time itself.

“Keep shining bright, my sweet girl,” her mother writes.
“We’ll be looking for that rainbow you always leave.” 🌈

And somewhere, maybe, Scarlett is smiling — the same soft smile she had at 4:01 p.m. that summer afternoon — watching, waiting, still lighting up her family’s world from above.