Memories of Isabella “Bella” Pierre-Louis, told by her father
I want you to know how Bella lived.
I want you to meet the little girl who called me Babe. The girl who believed her father was the greatest basketball player in the world, who had strong opinions about broccoli and bedtime, and who could be laughing before the tears had dried on her face.
Bella was sweet, intelligent, curious, and full of energy. She played basketball, soccer, and softball, wanted to try volleyball, and started learning the piano while she was young. She loved drawing, singing, making things, and discovering what she could do. She was not in a hurry to choose just one version of herself.
She could be competitive and stubborn. She wanted to win. She wanted an explanation. And when Babe’s explanation did not satisfy her, she usually had something to say about it.
She was a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin, a goddaughter, a teammate, a classmate, and a friend. Each relationship held a part of her life. These are the parts I knew as her father: my teammate, my dance partner, my storytelling partner, sometimes my teacher, and always my little girl.
She called me Babe. No one else could say it the way she did. When she said it, I knew exactly who I was to her.
I want you to hear that voice as you read. I want you to smile at her, not only feel sorry for what happened to her. Bella had a life before she became someone we missed. There was so much joy in knowing her.
Waiting for Bella—and Meeting Her
Before Bella was born, we decided to wait until our baby arrived to find out whether we were having a girl or a boy.
The answer was in a sealed envelope, and we left it unopened. During hospital visits, the staff knew not to tell us.
But I was already imagining a daughter, speaking as though I knew.
Isabella was the name for a girl. When the conversation turned to what we would name a boy, I kept saying, “It’s not going to be a boy.”
“But what if it’s a boy?”
“It’s not going to be a boy. I can feel it. I know it. It has to be a girl.”
Finally, I joked, “If it’s a boy, we’ll still give her a girl’s name. We can name her Bella.”
I had not met her yet, but somehow I was already waiting for Bella.
On the day she arrived, I remember the doctor recommending a cesarean section after concerns during labor. I asked for more time, and we kept praying for her safe arrival. Eventually, Bella was born without the cesarean section.
Then the doctor said, “It’s a girl.”
My heart filled with joy. I smiled and said, “Thank you, God.”
Nervous that I might do it wrong, I took the scissors and cut the umbilical cord. There she was: the daughter I had been waiting for.
Looking back, I connect the meaning associated with Isabella, “God is my oath,” with the girl who grew to love God and pray for others.
That day, I thought I was standing at the beginning of an entire lifetime. I had no idea how much love would fit inside ten years, or how short those years would feel afterward.
Bella and Babe
Bella believed in Babe—sometimes more than Babe believed in himself.
Her mother once told me that Bella had argued with a boy because she insisted her father was the greatest basketball player in the world. I was not there. I heard the story afterward, and I loved it. Not because I thought I was a basketball legend, but because my little girl was proud of me even when I was not in the room.
In the driveway, she wanted to be on my team. When she was too small to get the ball high enough, I would lift her so she could put it through the hoop. The point belonged to both of us. That was our team.
Sometimes I would lie on my back on the bed and lift her above me with my feet. She would spread her arms, screaming and singing, “I believe I can fly.”
I would help her flip forward and backward, or put her on the kitchen counter and gently toss her into the air. Her mother could become nervous watching us. Bella would laugh and want to do it again. I loved the trust she placed in me.
She loved climbing on my back too. On a cruise we took together, she had a signal for another one of our games: she would simply stand in front of me. I knew she wanted me to flip her backward onto my shoulder.
She loved it. Then I became her horsey.
Just Bella standing in front of Babe, and the two of us knowing what came next.
Looking through our pictures, I keep stopping at the ones where we are making ridiculous faces. Bella pulling a face. Babe answering with one of his own. Those pictures remind me how much fun I had being her father. Sometimes we were just being silly together, and that was enough.
Her Brother, Her Teams, and Her Determination
Bella loved her brother. That did not stop him from driving her crazy. He could make her cry, and she would come to complain as though the injustice were unbearable. Five minutes later, they would be playing together again.
When he beat her at basketball, she had an explanation ready: he was taller. That was it. It certainly could not have been because he was better.
Bella took her sports seriously. When her team lost, she could become quiet, disappointed, and upset. I would tell her, “Don’t play to win. Play to have fun, and you can never lose.”
“What does that even mean, Babe?”
I can still imagine the look she gave me. Bella was trying to win it.
In October 2023, she told me her soccer team had won 7–1. She sent one proud word: “Undefeated.” Her team went on to finish the season undefeated, and when I asked if they were champions, she answered, “Yup.”
In December, she sent me a basketball video and told me she had scored 14 points. She wanted me to share that achievement. After a close 23–27 loss, she admitted, “I was really sad though.”
She felt the victories and the disappointments. But she kept playing.
She Wanted to Try
Bella had so many things she wanted to do. She skated, climbed, pulled herself up a backyard rope, and discovered new ways to challenge herself. Basketball, soccer, softball, music, drawing—there was always room for another interest.
Bella loved swimming. She learned at a young age, and we swam together countless times. I loved being in the water with her, sharing something she enjoyed. Those were ordinary moments in our life, and I miss them deeply.
I also loved that she had ideas about what might come next. Volleyball. Drums. Becoming a chef. A trip to Paris. She could tell me about something she wanted to try, and for a moment I could imagine that future with her.
I look at her dressed like a princess, then climbing, playing basketball, or holding up another drawing. All of those pictures are my Bella. She was still surprising me, and I wanted to be there for all of it.
“What the Problem Is?”
When Bella cried, I had my own little way of trying to reach her.
“What the problem is?” I would ask.
Still crying, she would begin, “The problem is…”
Hearing her repeat my backward phrase while trying to keep that serious crying face would make me laugh. Then she would try not to join me. She was upset, and she was not quite ready to give that up.
But eventually the laughter would get through. Sometimes she would still have tears on her cheeks while she was smiling.
I loved watching her smile find its way back. When she was angry, she sometimes needed quiet and withdrew for a while. I remember that part of her too. Bella did not have to be cheerful every minute to be the loving, playful child I knew.
When Bella Became the Teacher
One day, Bella asked me to solve a problem from her Russian Math lessons. I tried. I struggled. She watched me for a moment and then said, “It’s easy, Babe. Let me show you.”
She explained it calmly and patiently. I was amazed—not only that she knew the answer, but that she understood it well enough to teach her father.
I had so much I wanted to teach my little girl. It was a joy to discover how much she could teach me too.
During the last nine months of her life, we had another way of changing places: Teacher Tuesday.
In Bella’s room, she, her two favorite cousins, Fannie and Vicky, and I took turns being the teacher. Bella could not wait for her turn. She made her own agenda and classroom rules, and the rest of us had to follow them.
I was so impressed by how smart my baby girl had become. I also enjoyed being a disruptive student and getting put in time-out. Three strikes, and my own daughter would send me out of the classroom. It was priceless.
The quiz games could become surprisingly emotional. Everybody wanted to win, although there were no prizes. There was candy afterward for everyone. I often had to remind the class that we were playing for fun.
And her classroom rules deserve to be remembered properly. Hugging was allowed. Slime was allowed. Phones were not. She even put the song I teased her with on the forbidden list. My daughter had found a way to make her opinions official. When Bella was the teacher, Babe had to follow the rules too.
The photographs hold more of her life with other children too: backyard games, making things around a table, playground adventures, and crowded pictures full of silly faces. Teacher Tuesday was one part of those days. I also treasure the moments when they were simply playing together, with no lesson to finish and no special occasion to mark.
Bella Had Opinions
Bella loved her teachers and her friends, but she did not pretend to enjoy every part of school. One afternoon she announced, “School was made not fun.”
Somehow, our conversation became a debate about healthy food. “Besides carrots, it’s ALL bad,” she told me. When I suggested baked broccoli, she answered, “Barf.” Asparagus received an equally firm rejection: “No me, no way.”
Bedtime was no more popular. When I asked whether she was ready for bed, the answer was, “Nope. Never have been, never will be.” She had never been particularly enthusiastic about going to sleep early.
Even a birthday wish list could become a negotiation. I questioned whether she was too old for a ride-on car and explained that it needed space. Bella immediately found the weakness in my argument: “We have a driveway, so that would be fine.”
She listened. She considered what I said. She did not feel obliged to agree.
In our family, “no funny business” meant behaving even when the adults were not watching. Bella understood. Then she turned it around on me:
“You no funny business, Babe.”
“Because You Are Old”
Bella loved slime more than I could understand. She could play with it all day.
“I don’t see any fun in playing with this wet rubber that is slimy,” I would say.
“Because you are old,” she replied.
She was right. Play did not need an explanation that satisfied me. She was enjoying herself.
I miss the messes at the kitchen sink, on the kitchen table, and out in the backyard. What I could not understand then, I treasure now: Bella completely occupied with something that made her happy.
She could tease me just as easily during our movies. We loved The Cat in the Hat and watched it what felt like a million times. It could still make her laugh. Around Christmas, we watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and she would ask whether I was related to the Grinch because I was so hairy.
Bella could compare me to the Grinch and somehow make me feel loved.
She Wanted Her People Together
Bella wanted the people she loved close to her. In January 2024, she wrote, “I want all of us to be together like before, me, you, Mommy, and Josh.” Then she added, “It makes me very sad.”
In one of her drawings, she put all four of us inside a large red heart. She labeled the figures “Mom,” “me,” “Josh,” and “dad,” surrounded us with little green hearts, and wrote “I love you.” I look at that picture and see the family she drew, with herself right there among us. I treasure having that expression of her love in her own hand.
She also told me how much she missed Babe and Stuffuls. She did not always have a way to change what made her sad, but she could tell me what she wished for.
There were periods when our time together was painfully limited. Even when we had only a few minutes, we found ways to make them ours. Sometimes we spoke French. It was another small connection between us.
Bella wanted the whole family to go to Paris, and I promised that someday we would. When she pictured that trip, she pictured us together. I still carry that promise. Paris will always contain a journey I wish we had made with her.
She had Disneyland on her mind too. She sent me a drawing of a purple castle with yellow windows, labeled “Disney Land,” and told me, “I want to go there.” Then she said it again: “Yeah I really wanna go there.” She had places she wanted to explore, and she wanted Babe to hear about them.
When she was younger, she once told me she prayed I would get fired. It sounds terrible until you understand it. I had sometimes told her I was working when she did not understand why I was not sleeping at the house anymore. That was not the whole truth, and I wish I had found better words.
Looking back, I understood those words as a little girl’s attempt to bring her father home. If work was keeping Babe away, perhaps losing his job would mean he could stay. That is how I have come to understand what she said.
The Little Things She Wanted to Tell Me
Bella’s days were full of ordinary things she wanted to share: school, practices, friends, a new hairstyle, a drone, hopes for snow days, and roller skating during school vacation.
For all her opinions about school, she could also tell me how happy she was to see her teacher and friends. She was not shy about making friends, and even children she had said she did not like could soon be playing with her again.
“Hi Babe.” “Good morning Babe.” “I got my hair done.”
I loved that she wanted me to see her hair, hear her news, and be part of a day I had not spent beside her. I answered as a father answering his daughter. I did not know I was also being given little pieces of her childhood to keep.
I miss my little girl having a day to tell me about.
Our Little Worlds at Bedtime
Bella’s favorite bedtime story was the Big Bad Wolf. Sometimes I was tired and suggested that she ask Mommy to tell it, but Bella wanted Babe’s version.
I changed voices, acted out the characters, and made it scary. She loved the suspense and the playful fright. The same story could become another adventure because we were telling it together again.
Then there was Titanic. I had been inventing my own version long before Bella discovered the movie and realized just how much Babe had been making up.
“The Titanic ship didn’t fly, Babe.”
She had caught me. But she still wanted another version.
Sometimes Bella added her own parts, deciding what should happen next and helping me build the story. I was no longer only telling her something; I was listening to what she imagined too. She even drew the ship afterward.
The photographs preserve her Titanic drawing as an outline and then in color: our bedtime stories taking shape on her paper.
The best part was not getting the story right. It was discovering where the two of us would take it.
It Only Needed to Come From Her
Bella loved drawing, and some of her pictures were made especially for Babe. We drew together too, even though I could not draw to save my life. She never made me feel foolish about it.
Sometimes she had me color with her. Because I was terrible at choosing colors, she decided which crayons to hand me.
On a Father’s Day page about me, Bella wrote that I liked eggs and water and was good at dancing. Then came the question about her favorite thing to do with Dad. Her answer was one word: “Color.”
Of all the things a father hopes to give his child, sitting together with crayons had mattered enough for Bella to choose it.
Meanwhile, I kept reminding her about precision and neatness. “Because it’s arrrrrtttttt,” I would say, stretching out the word as though that explained everything.
“It doesn’t matter, Babe,” she would answer. “You just need it to be beautiful.”
And I would still tell her, “Don’t color outside the lines.”
For Christmas in 2023, I sent her crayons and LED lights. Later, she told me she was using the crayons’ color-testing sheet. I loved seeing her explore the colors and ideas that interested her.
Her pictures took me into the things she imagined: superheroes among buildings, giraffes beneath the sun, and a butterfly under a rainbow. She filled Valentine cards for Babe with bright hearts, including a yellow heart surrounded by bands of pink, blue, and orange. I treasure the colors she chose and the handwriting around them. Those were the little decisions that made each picture hers.
Her imagination took shape in other ways too. In one photograph, she stands beside a magnetic-tile tower she helped build, taller than she was. I love the sight of my little girl beside something so big and colorful. Her ideas could fill a sheet of paper or rise up from the floor.
What I would give now to watch her make a messy drawing.
Bella was partly right. The precision did not matter. Her pictures came from her imagination, her love, and her pure heart. They did not even need to be beautiful.
They only needed to come from her.
Music Between Us
I had wanted to learn the piano as a child but could not afford the opportunity. I wanted Bella to have that chance, so I got her started early.
Alongside the piano, Bella tried a trumpet and wanted to try the drums too. There was always another sound to discover.
Music became something we could share. We took turns choosing songs for each other. “Play me a nice song,” she would say, and then she would choose something for me.
She created music too. She even made the Bella-Babe song. Our names had become something she could turn into music.
Her messages preserve that same creative spirit. On August 14, 2023, she wrote, “I am going to write you a song.” That evening she sent a video with the words, “I hope you like my song.”
I loved it. I told her I was making a surprise song for her as well. We were not only listening to songs together; we were giving each other something we had helped create.
Her Own Words
Bella also put her world into words. She wrote her own raps about her friends, noticing their kindness, intelligence, singing, and athletic abilities. She introduced herself, found things to say about the people she knew, and worked them into her writing. Her friendships had found their way onto the page.
Her notebook held other parts of her days too: lists, little plans, strong opinions, and even what to wear during the school week. She was discovering how to tell a story and how to say what she thought.
Some pages were playful. Others held frustration or hurt. I want to remember her with room for all those feelings. She was still growing, still figuring out friendships, and already finding ways to express herself.
Then there is her handwritten wishes list. Bella wanted a puppy, a trampoline, and more recess. She even wished that stuffed animals could talk. Reading those wishes, I can hear the same little girl who had an answer for bedtime and could explain exactly why our driveway had room for a ride-on car.
On that same list, she wished for Mommy to have fun and rest, for Babe to come home, and for Babe to get a break.
Bella noticed the people she loved. In the middle of imagining more fun and talking stuffed animals, she was thinking about what might make us happy too.
Taking care of the grown-ups was never her responsibility. But there is tenderness in those wishes that I will always treasure. She wanted time with us. She wanted us to rest and enjoy ourselves. Her own happiness had room for ours.
Seeing her handwriting now means so much to me. These are words she chose, in letters she formed herself. And when she finished a piece and signed “By Isabella Pierre-Louis,” she left something that will always be hers.
The Worst Song in the World
One song became an ongoing disagreement: Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).”
I called it the best song in the world. Bella was equally certain it was the worst.
Sometimes I would simply be sitting there. No music playing. Nobody talking about the song. And out of nowhere she would say, “Babe, don’t play I Would Do Anything for Love.”
Which, of course, reminded me of it.
When I played it, she ran. She knew I was going to chase her, catch her, pick her up, and dance with her. Watching that little routine unfold gave me so much joy.
Maybe she genuinely disliked the song. She had certainly heard it enough times. But deep down, I believe she loved our moment. The song gave us an excuse for the same silly disagreement and another dance.
I love remembering her with an opinion so strong she had to announce it before I had even done anything.
“Another Year of You”
For Bella’s birthday in 2023, I had a song made especially for her: “Another Year of You.”
Our family life was already complicated. I wanted her birthday to include something that belonged completely to her—a song made because Bella existed, and another year of Bella was worth celebrating.
She was excited waiting for it and sent me a photograph of her excited face. I teased her first by sending a different song. She caught me immediately: “You did not make that song. I had heard it before.”
When I finally sent the actual song, she still questioned me because she knew the singing voice was not mine. I explained, “I didn’t sing it, but I made it for you.”
I asked whether she loved it. “Yeah,” she answered with a happy face.
That was Bella: observant, honest, and not about to be fooled just because Babe was trying to surprise her.
At the time, the title was happy. Another birthday. Another year of watching her grow. I could not have imagined how much longing those words would one day hold.
Now I hear them and think of another Teacher Tuesday, another conversation about her day, another chance to sit beside her. I would give anything for another year of Bella. I would be grateful for five more minutes.
One Bite for Bella, One Bite for Babe
When Bella was younger, I would bring home a chocolate bar, and we would sit together to share it. One bite for Bella, one bite for Babe, back and forth.
But she watched the size of my bites. If the chocolate was getting small and Babe’s bites were getting suspiciously large, she made sure she got a couple more first. Only then would she put the last piece directly into my mouth.
As she grew older and I was not always there, she kept the tradition going. She would get chocolate and save it in the refrigerator for me. If somebody ate it, even a little, she could become upset. That chocolate was waiting for Babe.
She was going through her day and saving a small part of it for us.
Being loved by Bella meant receiving those little reminders that I had a place in her world. A drawing made for me. A song sent with the hope that I would like it. Something that had happened that she wanted to tell me.
I have written so much about loving my daughter, but she loved me back. Her love brought laughter, tenderness, and companionship into my life. I looked forward to hearing her voice and finding out what she had to say.
I miss my little girl. I miss sharing the chocolate. And I miss knowing there was a piece she had saved for me.
Her Grandmother’s Cooking—and Bella’s Restaurant
Bella had plenty to say about food she did not like. Her grandmother’s fried plantains and chicken were another matter.
She would eat without worrying about the mess on her hands or around her mouth. She was enjoying every bite. I love remembering her that way: not trying to be anything, not performing for anyone, just a child eating something she loved.
One day I asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She told me she wanted to be a chef.
“You better be a chef at Bella’s fancy restaurant,” I said. “I work too damn hard.”
There it was: another future to imagine. Her name outside, her ideas in the kitchen, Bella in charge. I could picture her telling everyone how things should be done—and quite possibly telling Babe to stay out of the way.
Faith, Babies, and a Caring Heart
Bella loved God and prayed for us and for others. When I told her to pray for people who were less fortunate, she asked why.
“Because they need our prayers,” I told her, “and God listens to little children.”
She sang at church too. In January 2024, she proudly sent me a photograph from the newspaper and wrote, “I made the newspaper.” She sent the performance and told me exactly where to look: “See me at 26 min” and “We sing again at 1:35.”
She wanted Babe to watch, so I watched and told her how good she looked on stage. I loved that she wanted to share it with me.
She also loved babies. She wanted to hold them, feed them, and help care for them. Her enthusiasm had one clear boundary: changing diapers.
No. She must have gotten that gene from Babe.
She was happy to take part in the enjoyable work. Somebody else could handle the diapers.
Stuffffff…fuls
Before Stuffuls was a real dog, Bella had a stuffed puppy I had given her. She made up games and adventures with it, but for years she kept asking for a real puppy.
Eventually, I asked what she would name a dog. She hesitated, then tried it out: “Stuffffff…fuls.”
Then she became unsure. Maybe it was not a good name.
“That is the best name,” I told her.
For her next birthday, Stuffuls came home. The video captured her excitement and gratitude. The puppy she had wanted and already named was finally there.
When people asked what Stuffuls meant, I told them my little girl had picked the name. It did not need a meaning. Bella had chosen it, and that was enough.
Stuffuls could nip or scratch during puppy play, and Bella sometimes had to get away from those puppy teeth. But she defended her: “It’s okay. She was only playing.”
Later photographs show Bella beside Stuffuls in the grass, or holding up a stuffed toy while Stuffuls reaches for it. The puppy she had wished for had become her companion.
Even when they were apart, her messages kept returning to Stuffuls. How was she? What was she doing? Could she visit? “Say good night to Stuffuls for me.”
Then there was Bella’s explanation: “Stuffuls doesn’t remember she is a dog.”
To Bella, she was family. And whenever I say that unusual, wonderful name, I can remember my daughter trying it out for the first time.
Her Last Day Was Still Bella
On our final day together, I took Bella to the store. She chose snacks and candy and made sure there was enough to share with her cousins.
At the time, it was an ordinary trip. I did not know I was collecting a final memory.
She was still being Bella: a little girl with people she loved and something she wanted to share.
You Can Smile When You Remember Her
I was still learning how to be the father Bella needed. Sometimes I was tired. Sometimes I did not find the right words. There are moments I would handle differently now.
But I do not have to make our relationship perfect in memory for it to have been precious. We had laughter, stories, and a language of songs, jokes, chocolate, and “Babe.” I was trying to help her grow, and she was teaching me along the way.
While Bella was alive, I had asked that her innocence be protected. She was a child, and adult problems were not hers to carry. That same care belongs to her memory. Difficult questions may have their place, but they must never become more important than the child they concern.
Here, I want people to know the Bella who rejected broccoli with one word, sent her father out of the classroom, compared him to the Grinch, and drew the line at changing diapers.
Her laughter belongs in her memorial too.
I do not want to make her so solemn in memory that the people who knew her cannot recognize her. She had opinions, impatience, confidence, kindness, and a wonderfully quick answer for Babe.
When I remember her telling me not to play that song, there is grief in the memory. But there is joy there too. I loved that moment while she was here. I am allowed to love it still.
My Bella
Sometimes I close my eyes and try to hear her: “Hi Babe.”
I think of the stories she helped me invent, the chocolate she put aside, and the drawings that only needed to come from her. I think of the future she was planning, and all the things she still wanted to try.
I cannot tell you who she would have become. I can tell you who she already was: funny, determined, imaginative, generous, and deeply loved.
She wanted to win, and she wanted enough candy to share. She could challenge my explanations and patiently help me when I did not understand. I loved discovering who she was becoming.
She had her own voice, and I want it to remain part of how we remember her.
I was there when she entered this world. I heard, “It’s a girl,” and thanked God. I thought I was at the beginning of a lifetime. I still wish that lifetime could have been longer.
But knowing Bella was not only something I lost. It was something I was given. I want these pages to carry that gratitude as well as the ache.
Her life will always be greater than the story of her death. I will keep telling her stories because knowing her was a joy.
She lived. She laughed. She dreamed. She loved. And I will love her for the rest of my life.
I was her Babe. I am grateful she was my Bella.