Sunday morning felt… quiet.

Not empty. Not peaceful in a light, carefree way.

But a quiet that held both rest and weight at the same time.

We woke up slowly, without alarms or anywhere we needed to be. For a moment, it almost felt like a normal Sundaythe kind where you ease into the day, not rushing, just letting it unfold.

And yet, there was an awareness sitting just beneath the surface.

This wasn’t just any Sunday.

We turned on church on the iPad and sat together, letting worship fill the room. It felt important to anchor ourselves there to start the day with truth, even when our emotions felt all over the place.

God felt near in a steady, quiet way.

Not removing the heaviness, but holding us inside of it.

After church, we ordered breakfast something simple, something normal. I made sure to order pancakes for Austin, knowing how much he loves them. It felt like one small way to care for him in the middle of everything, to hold onto something familiar for him even as so much around us felt different.

Not long after, my parents brought Austin up to the hospital.

There was something so grounding about seeing him.

His presence brought a different kind of light into the room an innocence, a normalcy that we needed more than we realized. And at the same time, it carried its own weight, knowing one day he would come to understand more of this story.

So we held both of those things at once, just like everything else that day.

We spent the morning together, being with Ethan, being with Austin, just being a family.

Holding him.

Studying his face.

Memorizing the tiny details we didn’t want to forget.

Around 11, we got on a FaceTime call with Jodi from Sufficient Grace Ministries, who gently walked us through everything they had sent and how to create the keepsakes.

There was something so kind about being guided through it.

Not having to figure it out on our own.

Not having to rush something that mattered so deeply.

It gave structure to the moment, but also permission to slow down.

We began working on his handprints and footprints, carefully pressing each one, taking our time with the molds, making sure we captured every little detail we could.

Things we might not have thought of.

Things we might not have had without their guidance.

And in that space, it felt like we were continuing to be his voice.

Capturing proof that he was here.

That he lived.

That he mattered.

Ben’s family arrived, his parents, his sister, his aunt and uncle and stepped into that space with us.

His mom and sister especially joined in the memory-making.

They helped with Ethan’s handprints and footprints.

They sat close and took their time with him.

They were part of creating those pieces we will hold onto forever.

And what could have felt overwhelming instead became something shared.

There was something deeply meaningful about them not just being there, but participating.

Seeing him.

Holding him.

Honoring his life alongside us.

You could feel that it mattered to them too.

That this time with him, these small acts of remembering, were just as important for them as they were for us.

There was a connection in it.

A tenderness.

Even a sense of healing in the middle of heartbreak.

Later in the afternoon, we decided to try to take a few more photos with Austin and Ethan.

The night before, Austin had been so tired, and we didn’t get as much time as we had hoped. So this felt like a chance to slow down and let him really be with his brother.

My parents helped lift Austin up onto the bed and gently placed Ethan in his arms.

And Austin just… took him in.

Looking at him.

Studying him.

In his own quiet, childlike way.

It was different than the night before.

More present.

More aware.

Later, we had Ethan in the bassinet while we were taking a few additional photos we thought we might want to have.

Austin climbed up next to the bassinet on his own, right beside him.

So naturally.

So sweetly.

He leaned in, telling Ethan that he loved him, giving him little kisses.

We captured a video of it him just loving on his brother in the most innocent, genuine way.

He had brought a little giraffe for Ethan and was showing it to him, almost like he was playing with him, including him in his world the only way he knew how.

It was such a tender moment.

The kind you don’t plan.

The kind you just get to witness.

And those memories, those photos, those videos will be something we treasure forever.

The day continued on slowly, gently.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing forced.

Just time…being fully present with him and with each other.

But as evening began to settle in, something shifted.

It wasn’t sudden. It didn’t come with words.

It just… filled the room.

The weight of what tomorrow would bring.

Saying our final goodbye.

The end of our time holding Ethan in this way.

You could feel it in the quiet.

In the pauses.

In the way no one really wanted to leave.

And as that reality settled in, it became heavy.

Heavier than anything we had felt earlier in the day.

Ben and I could both feel it, the anticipation, the ache, the knowing of what was coming.

We knew what tomorrow meant.

And we didn’t feel ready.

So we did the only thing we knew to do.

We asked God for strength.

Because in that moment, we were struggling to carry it on our own.

And somehow, in His kindness, He met us there.

As the night came, we all climbed into the hospital bed together, holding Ethan, holding each other.

Not wanting to let go of the day.

Not wanting to let go of him.

Just staying.

Together.

For our last night with him.

And as we laid there, we could feel it…

the love,

the grief,

and the weight of what morning would bring.

Morning was coming, whether we were ready or not.