I remember the last words she ever spoke.

I love you, Mommies.

I never allow myself to think about it, but for some reason I do tonight. Maura is still at work and I'm staring at Julia's picture.

I love you, Mommies.

Her weak voice is still ringing in my head. She rarely called us Mommy or Mama. She was too old and too cool for that. But in that moment, she was our little girl. She was our little girl and we had to let her go.

I love you, Mommies.

Her eyes were closed. Her skin was so pale it seemed see-through. She was quivering. Her body was worn-out. She was done. She couldn't fight any longer. Her body couldn't fight anymore. It was over.

I remember how the life flooded out of her. I can still hear the sound of Maura's whimpers and loud cries as she clutched to the lifeless body in our arms. But most of all, I still remember how Julia's face relaxed. I remember how her features weren't tensed anymore. I remember how her muscles relaxed, how her brow wasn't furrowed in pain any longer and how her lips turned from a sharp stripe in to their original, relaxed form. I remember how the pain faded away from her body, along with the life.

I remember the night that followed. I remember Maura's loud shrieks and heartbreaking cries when she refused to let Julia go. I remember how I couldn't speak or do anything but cry silently, there seemed to be no end to my tears. I remember the pain. And by remembering it, I start to feel it again. It's a kind of pain I know I'll never recover from. A kind I've never felt before.

I remember how she asked us if dying would hurt. I remember telling her she wouldn't feel a thing. I told her she would go to a beautiful place without pain and cancer. She told me she wished she could bring her favorite book. I told her there would be all the books in the world. I can only hope it's true. I can only hope she's reading all the books in the world right now.

I trace Julia's face with my fingers, imagining it's her skin instead of the cold glass of the photo frame. I remember how she used to fit in my arms. How she tucked her head under my chin when we hugged and how she could bury herself in my embrace whenever we watched TV. I can still feel her warm skin under my fingers, her small body in my arms, her messy curls tickling my chest.

I'm surprised to feel a tear trickling down my cheek. It's been weeks since I've cried. But I can't contain this kind of pain any longer. There's too much of it. It's pouring over, breaking my walls and flooding all over me. My knees buckle beneath me and I sink down to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest as I finally allow the pain to take over.

I'm no longer empty. I'm filled. Filled with pain. Filled with loss, hurt and awful, horrible, excruciating pain. The emptiness is gone. But I think I liked the emptiness better. Loud whimpers echo through the empty living room. I bury my head in my arms and feel hot tears streaming down my face, dripping onto my legs.

My little girl is gone.