Posted October 29, 2025

It has been 115 days since her world went silent.

One hundred and fifteen sunrises without the sound of his laughter.
One hundred and fifteen nights of whispering his name into the dark, hoping somehow he can still hear her.

Her name is never mentioned in the letter — but her voice is unmistakable. It trembles, aches, and carries the weight of love that refuses to die.

It begins with two words that cut straight to the heart:

“Lieve Miles.”
Dear Miles.

A Goodbye That Never Feels Finished

When she wrote those words, her hands shook.
The ink blurred as tears fell onto the paper.
It had been 115 days since her son, Miles, closed his eyes for the last time — and never opened them again.

He was tired.
Too tired for a little body that had fought for far too long.
And though she told him it was okay to rest, what she couldn’t tell him was that “rest” meant forever.

“You wanted to sleep forever,” she wrote. “I told you it was okay. But what I didn’t tell you was that you would never wake up again. That you would never see me, never hold me again. And that is something I now carry every single day.

”

That sentence — quiet, simple, devastating — captures what no mother should ever have to say.
She gave him permission to find peace, knowing it meant she would never have it again.

The Strength of a Fading Child

Miles had fought longer than most adults could endure.
His mother watched as his body grew weaker, yet his spirit never wavered.
Every breath he took was an act of courage.


Every smile, a rebellion against pain.

“Your little body was done,” she wrote. “You fought with a strength I can’t even put into words. Every day I looked at you and saw how brave you were, how hard your body worked. Until there came a moment when I knew — you couldn’t go on. And that was okay.

There is no word in any language for the moment a parent realizes their child is slipping away — and accepts it.
It’s not surrender. It’s love in its purest form.


To let go, not because you want to, but because they need you to.

The Day the Light Went Out

From the moment Miles was born, he became her universe.


“In your eyes, I was your everything,” she wrote. “But the truth is — from the moment you were born, you became mine.”

He wasn’t just her son. He was her heartbeat, her compass, her proof that goodness existed in a world so often cruel.


He was laughter in the morning and comfort at night.
And when he left, the light in her world went with him.

“Since you closed your eyes forever, the light went out in me,

” she said.
And yet, somehow, in the same breath, she confessed that a small spark still glows somewhere deep inside her.
Because that spark — she believes — is him. 

Her little Miles.
Her light in the dark.

A Love That Lives Beyond Time

There are no perfect days anymore.
Every moment feels split in two — half memory, half reality.


She wakes, eats, moves through the motions of life, but always with the quiet ache of something missing.

Grief doesn’t fade. It shifts.
It changes shape, moves into corners of the heart, sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring.


Some days, it feels like breathing underwater.

And yet, in between those waves of sorrow, there are small moments of grace.
A song that plays unexpectedly.
A flicker of sunlight on the wall.


A whisper of wind that feels like a tiny hand brushing against her cheek.

Signs, she believes, that Miles is still near.

“Since you closed your eyes, the light went out in me. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a small spark remains. Because I know that’s you, my Miles — my light in the darkness.

”

It’s not faith she clings to, not religion — it’s connection.
A love so deep that even death can’t silence it.

The Memory That Never Fades

People often tell grieving parents that time heals.
But for her, time doesn’t heal — it only stretches.
It widens the distance between “was” and “is.”

The toys still sit in their places.
The tiny clothes folded neatly in drawers she can’t bring herself to open.
Photos that once made her smile now make her heart ache — not because she wants to forget, but because remembering hurts just as much as losing.

She still talks to him.
She still says goodnight.
Still tells him about her day, about how much she misses him, about how she’s trying — really trying — to live again.

But life after Miles feels like walking through fog.
She can see the path, but not the color.
She can breathe, but never deeply.

A Mother’s Promise

In her letter, she never writes “goodbye.”
Because this isn’t a goodbye — it’s a promise.
A promise to remember, to carry him forward, to love him in every tomorrow that he’ll never see.

“Until we meet again, Miles,” she ends softly.

Those words don’t close the letter.
They keep it open — a bridge between heaven and earth.
Between what was lost and what still remains.

The Quiet Power of Letting Go

What makes her story so haunting isn’t just the loss — it’s the grace with which she writes about it.
There is no anger, no bitterness. Only love, threaded through every line like gold through broken glass.

She doesn’t romanticize pain. She simply lays it bare — the weight of it, the beauty in it, the unbearable stillness that follows.

And in that stillness, she reveals something sacred: the power of letting go without ever stopping the act of loving.

Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t end with a heartbeat.
It continues — in the whispers, in the memories, in the small everyday moments that still carry his name.

The Echo of Miles

In 115 days, she’s learned that grief is not something you survive — it’s something you carry.
You fold it into your heart and learn to live alongside it.

She doesn’t ask for pity.
She doesn’t need comfort.
What she wants — what she needs — is for people to remember him.

To say his name.
To know that he existed.
To understand that a small boy named Miles once changed the world of one woman forever.

Because that’s what love does — it leaves traces.
And his traces are everywhere.

The Letter That Speaks for Thousands

Though written in Dutch, her words transcend language.
They speak for every parent who has ever kissed their child for the last time.
For every mother who has watched a tiny chest rise and fall and prayed for one more breath.

Her letter isn’t just for Miles.
It’s for every child who left too soon.
Every parent who’s had to find meaning in the unthinkable.

And in her heartbreak, she gives something precious — the reminder that love can survive even the darkest night.

Until They Meet Again

It’s been 115 days.
Tomorrow it will be 116.
And the world will keep turning — but for her, time will always be marked by before and after.

Still, she carries him with her — in every sunrise, every heartbeat, every breath that whispers his name.

Her letter ends as all the greatest love stories do — not with an ending, but with a promise:

Until we meet again, Miles.

Because love like that doesn’t end.
It simply waits.