She should have been turning seven this week.
There should have been balloons, laughter, frosting on little fingers, and the sound of her giggles echoing through the house.
But instead, her family finds themselves whispering prayers and tracing the memory of her smile.
Because Maylin “May” Kay Bell — their bright, loving, one-of-a-kind little girl — is no longer here.
May was the kind of child who felt everything deeply.
When she loved, she loved completely.
She loved her parents fiercely, her home, her dog Kona, and her “Grampy” Lanny most of all.
If someone asked her what she wanted to do that day, she always answered the same way — “Go see Grampy.”
He was her hero, her comfort, her best friend in the world.
May’s world was full of wonder.
She adored animals — penguins especially.
She loved Minnie Mouse, Spiderman, Bluey, and her favorite baby doll named Cupcake.
She had two little blankets she called “Glankies,” which she carried everywhere, soft and loved from years of cuddles.
And if you ever wanted to make her smile, all you needed were soft pretzels and mac and cheese — her comfort foods, her happy place.
Her family remembers her as sunshine wrapped in laughter.
A little girl whose joy could fill a room, whose hugs could heal any bad day.
She had the biggest heart — gentle, silly, affectionate, and full of life.
But behind that sweetness, a storm was quietly forming — one that no one could have imagined.
It began with small things.
A stumble here, a slurred word there.
Her parents thought maybe she was tired, maybe it was nothing.
But the days passed, and something felt wrong.
Doctors ran tests.
And then came the words that shattered everything — Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma. DIPG.
A cruel, inoperable brain tumor.
A disease that steals a child’s smile, their movement, their voice — one piece at a time — but never their spirit.
There is no cure.
May was only six years old.
Her parents held her hands, trying to understand how the world could be so cruel.
The doctors explained the odds — or rather, the lack of them.
But May’s family refused to let despair define her story.
They decided to fill whatever time they had left with love, laughter, and moments that would last forever.
And so, May lived.
Truly lived.
Even in pain, she found joy.
Even as her body weakened, her heart grew stronger.
She still asked for her favorite shows.
Still laughed at silly jokes.
Still reached for her dog Kona, her best furry friend who never left her side.
And always, she asked for “Grampy.”
Their bond never wavered.
He would sit beside her, tell her stories, and sing softly until she drifted to sleep.
May’s family filled her world with everything she loved — penguins on her blankets, Minnie Mouse on her walls, and love surrounding her from every corner.
Every small smile became a treasure.
Every quiet giggle, a miracle.
Her mother once said, “Even in her hardest days, she wanted to make us feel better. That’s who she was.”
May’s heart was too big for her little body, too kind for this broken world.
As the weeks passed, her parents watched helplessly as the disease began to take more from her.
Her speech grew faint.
Her laughter softer.
Her eyes tired.
And yet, when she looked at her family, there was still light — a spark that said, I’m still here.
She held on longer than anyone expected.
Maybe because she didn’t want to let go of them.
Or maybe because love, real love, can hold back even the darkest night for a while.
When her time came, it was peaceful.
The house was quiet.
Her parents held her, whispering how much they loved her, how proud they were.
Kona lay at her feet.
And Grampy was there, holding her tiny hand until the very end.
Her last breath came softly — like a sigh, like a whisper carried away by heaven’s wind.
And in that moment, Maylin’s suffering ended.
But her love did not.
Because love like hers doesn’t disappear.
It lingers — in her family’s laughter, in Kona’s soft paws against the floor, in the smell of warm pretzels and the sound of Grampy’s stories.
She is everywhere.
In every sunset, in every song, in every penguin plush that still sits by her bed.
She may be gone from this world, but her spirit remains — free, joyful, eternal.
Her family says they can feel her still — a flicker of warmth, a brush of air, a sign that she’s near.
And maybe she is.
Maybe she’s still whispering, “Go see Grampy,” smiling that same sweet smile, with her Glankies in hand and Kona by her side.
Maylin “May” Kay Bell.
A little girl with the biggest heart.
A child whose love was too powerful to fade.
Forever six. Forever loved. Forever remembered. 💗