The tears streamed as we tried, for the fourth time, to explain how to add fractions to our headstrong, academically delayed daughter of 14. She had always been behind, but did it really matter? Fractions, maybe, maybe not. At that moment, it felt monumental—but in truth, fractions were never what mattered most.
Let’s go back fourteen-plus years. Darwin and I never imagined we’d fall in love with a tiny baby who wasn’t ours—yet that’s exactly what happened. One April morning in 2005, we received a phone call from Darwin’s mom. She was taking in another foster child: a little baby who had just undergone open-heart surgery. “Are you crazy?” was just one of the many questions racing through our minds. What foster system would send a three-week-old with cardiac issues to the home of a 60-year-old widow already raising two very special needs teens—one wheelchair-bound and tube-fed, the other behaviorally challenged? Yet, three weeks later, we drove back to our hometown and met her: a fragile little girl, wires snaking around her, a bottle of thickened formula, and no interest in being held. And yet, all I wanted to do was hold her. She needed a mom. She needed a dad.
Less than three years later, after moving, changing jobs, navigating the foster system, and working through countless hurdles, we adopted her. Amie Leann became our second-chance baby. Our path to that moment had been winding. Darwin and I met in seventh grade and began dating in eleventh. By senior year, we discovered we were expecting and married sooner than planned. Our firstborn, Chris, had a heart as big as the world. Our second, Jonathon, was born with severe brain injury and left us after just five and a half months. A year and a half later came Tim, who we later learned had cerebral palsy and was on the autism spectrum. When Jeffrey came, we faced another devastating prognosis—he was born with kidney issues and only a 20% chance of survival. He fought bravely, but his tiny lungs failed, and he joined his brother in heaven. Our hearts had known profound loss, yet somehow, hope persisted.
The following years were about raising our family while growing ourselves. Darwin worked at a university after leaving the Army; I completed a radiology degree and worked at a beloved community hospital. Then, that fateful phone call arrived in 2005, changing everything. Chris was in community college; Tim was finishing high school. We were beginning to imagine empty-nest life—but Amie happened. And the saying, “You don’t know what you’re missing until you’re missing it,” had never felt truer.
Amie became our Princess. She charmed everyone she met, a feisty, opinionated little girl with a personality as wide as the sky. She marched to her own drum—pink shorts with a green shirt, Christmas sweaters in July. I tried hiding seasonal clothes, but she always found them. As she grew, we learned she had numerous medical challenges: two open-heart surgeries already behind her, more ahead; a genetic syndrome (16p11.2 deletion); seizures; a laryngeal cleft; a paralyzed vocal cord; and sleep apnea requiring CPAP. And yet, Amie thrived in her own extraordinary way.
I could write endlessly about her brilliance, her humor, and her unwavering spirit. But today, I want to share the lesson she left behind. Two months ago, we lost our fierce, spunky girl to her fourth open-heart surgery. We knew the risks. We knew she was in the best hands—her surgeon hadn’t lost a pediatric patient in nearly two years. The statistics were grim, her heart was damaged, and despite every effort, it wasn’t enough. We lost her. But Amie’s message lives on: live in the moment. Take time for silly things, for unplugged fun. Make memories that last, because life is never guaranteed.
We catered to her whims, yes—but in doing so, we honored the fragility and beauty of life. Pink hair? Done. Jumping in the pool fully clothed? Absolutely—and we jumped in right alongside her. Before every procedure, we made memories, because we knew the “just in case” moments could come sooner than we imagined.
Amie’s educators were wonderful, listening to what mattered most for her future. And though her future lasted only 14 years and 89 days, it wasn’t math, reading, or fractions that defined her—it was the people she touched. She showed everyone around her how to live boldly, love fiercely, and march to the beat of their own drum, for however long that drum will beat.
