Remembering Emma Askernäs on what should have been her twelfth birthday.

For her family, time has not dulled the ache.
It has only deepened the gratitude — for the love, the laughter, and the light that Emma brought into their lives.

Emma was a child of wonder.
Kind, polite, and wise beyond her years.
At six, she could count to twenty and even to ten in two other languages.

But her brilliance was not just in numbers.

It was in the way she loved, the way she laughed, and the way she saw beauty everywhere she looked.

She was full of life and mischief.
Her smile carried a spark that could brighten any day.

She loved dressing up in costumes — sometimes a princess, sometimes a Jedi, and sometimes a little minion running around the house with joy.

Emma adored her stuffed bunnies.
They went everywhere with her — in the car, to the doctor, to bed.

They were her comfort, her friends, her soft reminder that she was never alone.

She loved to draw and paint.
Colors seemed to come alive in her hands — blues and yellows dancing together, pinks blooming like little hearts.

Her imagination was boundless.
She would create worlds of her own, filling them with laughter and adventure.

And she loved stories — especially Star Wars and Disneyland.

Emma believed in magic, in galaxies far away, and in happy endings.

Even when life began to take those things from her, she still believed.

When Emma was diagnosed with DMG — diffuse midline glioma, a rare and aggressive brain tumor — her parents’ world collapsed.

They had heard the words, but they could hardly believe them.
How could someone so full of life be carrying something so cruel inside her little body?

In the early days, they hoped.

They prayed.
They researched, reaching for every possible cure, every flicker of possibility.

Emma endured treatments bravely.
She smiled through the discomfort, holding her parents’ hands, comforting them more than they could comfort her.

But as the months went on, the MRI scans began to tell a different story.

The tumors were growing.
Each image felt like a blow to the heart.

When the doctors finally said there was no longer any hope — not for a cure, not even to slow it down — the air seemed to leave the room.

Her parents were told their time with Emma was now limited.
They promised to make every remaining moment one of love, laughter, and peace.

They stopped chasing what couldn’t be changed and focused instead on what truly mattered — being together.

Emma’s days became slower but sweeter.
There were movie nights filled with Minions’ laughter.
There were quiet afternoons painting rainbows.
There were hugs that lasted longer and “I love you” whispered softer, but deeper.

Her family made her world as magical as they could.
Every small joy became sacred.
Every breath a miracle.

They asked friends to give them space — to let them land in their new reality, to stop sending links or miracle stories.

Because they had tried everything.
And now, what Emma needed most was not another fight, but peace.

In her final weeks, Emma was surrounded by everything she loved — her bunnies, her colors, her family.

She still smiled.
She still said “thank you.”
She still whispered “I love you.”

On September 2, 2019, Emma’s brave little heart stopped beating.
But the love she gave has never stopped.

Her family remembers her not with only sorrow, but with gratitude.
They speak of her laughter, her wisdom, and her fierce little spirit that never once gave up.

Every year, on her birthday, they light a candle.

They imagine her running through Disneyland, her laughter echoing among the stars, free from pain, free from fear.

Emma lived only six years, but those years overflowed with love, color, and wonder.

Her story is not one of tragedy, but of light — a reminder that even the smallest souls can change the world in the briefest time.

Fly high, sweet Emma.
You will forever be missed, and forever loved.