He wasn't just my brother he was my son, written by Briyana Ethan's sister.
Ethan. Standing here, trying to put into words how much he meant to me, how much he meant to all of us, feels almost impossible. How do you capture the essence of someone who was a light in your life, someone who made you laugh, someone who showed you how to live, even in the toughest of times? But I’m going to give it my best shot.
So… Ethan loved donuts.
Specifically — two glazed donuts.
Not one. Two.
And not with coffee like a normal person. No.
His order — and I quote — was:
> “two sweet pepper bacon breakfast sandwiches… with two glazed donuts.”
And one day, he just looked at us and said:
“You know what guys? I love donuts. They make me happy.”
And that was Ethan.
Simple things. Sweet things.
A donut. A LEGO set. A good joke.
That’s what brought him joy.
He was funny. Sharp. And, let’s be honest — kind of a little boss.
Especially when it came to his LEGOs.
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Our history
But everything changed on September 20, 2022.
My mom texted me:
“So Ethan’s MRI came back and I’m a wreck with it. Don’t call him or stress him out with it. They referred him to a specialist bc they see a mass. Im literally shaking. Bri … DO NOT PANIC!!!! ”
The next day, he cried in her arms and said,
“I’m scared.”
Noah — always the steady one — told us to stay positive.
And we did. We clung to that hope with everything we had.
But then came October 14th,2022
At 10:47 a.m., my mom told Noah. Then Noah called me. And after that… everything went still.
Time blurred.
Voices faded.
Breath disappeared.
I didn’t cry.
I screamed.
Not the kind of scream that asks for comfort
The kind that begs the universe to undo what it just did.
We all know the word.
But I never imagined I’d hear it tied to someone I loved so deeply.
———
My heart… dropped into a place I didn’t even know existed.
And yet… even in the shock, one thing came through, sharp and clear:
“I have to show up for him.”
I didn’t know what that would look like.
But I knew I would — in every way I could.
Because Ethan wasn’t just my little brother.
He was my best friend.
My comedian.
My son — in that overprotective, big sibling kind of way.
And he was *magic*.
The kind of magic that doesn’t need to announce itself.
It just walks into a room and makes it brighter — just by being there.
He didn’t demand the spotlight.
He earned it. Quietly. Authentically. Effortlessly.
---
Ethan was a collector — of people, of laughter, of memories… and LEGOs.
His collection was sacred.
He built cars. A bonsai tree. The Mona Lisa — all from either his room or a hospital bed.
That was his peace.
His therapy.
The one place where life fit together when everything else fell apart.
And don’t even think about helping unless you knew the rules.
There was an order.
A method.
And if you tried to touch his legos?he’d say
“Briyana, stop stop. Please don’t touch it.”
---
He fought osteosarcoma for nearly **three relentless years**.
Pokes. Ports. Chemo. Surgeries. Scans.
And the hardest part?
The hope.
We’d get a glimpse of good news —
“The chemo is working.”
And then, without warning, it would come back.
And every time we had to tell him?
Our hearts dropped.
Still — Ethan chose *joy*.
He joked through pain.
He used ChatGPT to finish his homework — and somehow got better grades than most kids who *weren’t* on chemo.
He FaceTimed me constantly.
If I didn’t call?
“Why didn’t you call me today?”
If I *did* call?
“Why are you calling again? We just talked.”
That was us.
That was love.
That was *him*.
---
And when he met Jackie?
He lit up in a way I’ll never forget.
*“My girlfriend is coming,”* he’d say, smiling ear to ear.
And I’d tease him:
*“Ethan, we know her name is Jackie.”*
He’d just grin — like he was in on some great cosmic secret.
And honestly? He probably was.
---
Then came the car.
When my dad gave Ethan that car, it wasn’t just about driving.
It was *freedom*.
*Independence*.
A taste of the life he dreamed of — one that wasn’t ruled by treatment schedules and scanxiety.
He cherished it.
It wasn’t about going somewhere.
It was about *feeling normal*.
Just for a little while.
He was growing up. Dreaming. Hoping. Loving.
And even when he couldn’t always be there physically,
he always showed up with his heart.
---
I remember the day I got engaged.
I was in Jacksonville. Ethan was in Tallahassee with Jackie.
He couldn’t be there with me.
But when I FaceTimed him afterward… the **joy** on his face?
It was **blinding**.
He wasn’t sad.
He wasn’t bitter.
He was just so, so *proud* of me.
Even in the middle of his own pain —
he celebrated *my joy*.
That’s Ethan.
---
That’s who we lost.
Not just a brother.
Not just a son.
Not just a friend.
We lost our **glue**.
Our center.
Our peace.
The one who held us all together — even while he was carrying the heaviest burden of all.
---
I miss him.
God, I miss him.
I miss his voice.
His sarcasm.
The way he made me feel like everything was going to be okay… even when it clearly wasn’t.
He wasn’t just the baby of the family.
He was the **soul** of it.
---
And I’ll admit…
I used to protect him *a lot*.
Any time my parents tried to discipline him?
I was already halfway into the room like a lawyer mid-objection:
*“Leave him alone. Let him live.”*
That was my line.
Because I *knew*.
I knew he was fighting invisible battles.
I knew he deserved peace.
I knew his heart.
And what a **heart** it was.
---
A beautiful soul.
A quiet warrior.
A builder — of LEGOs, of love, of laughter.
He lived more in 19 years than most people do in a lifetime.
He loved hard.
He gave everything.
And he left a mark that will *never* fade.
---
I used to text him:
“Can’t wait to see you.”*
And he always replied:
*“Me too, Cherie.”*
Sometimes, out of the blue, he’d text me:
*“Just wanted to say I’m proud of you and love you. Feel like I don’t say it enough.”*
I saved every single one.
---
So, to my little brother —
my best friend,
my rock,
my hero:
I love you.
I miss you more than words can say.
Thank you for showing me how to live,
how to love,
how to fight,
and how to find peace… even in the hardest moments.
You were taken from us far too soon —
but you will always be a part of me.
I will carry you with me for the rest of my life —
in my heart,
in my soul,
in every laugh,
and in every tear.
We weren’t ready to lose you…But we were so lucky to have you.
I’ll love you Forever.