Memories of Myrabelle Josephine Doré

Happy Birthday in heaven Myrabelle. I know there’s lots of delicious cake and ice cream for you to enjoy. Eat all you like.

We all miss your sweet smile and your infectious enthusiasm for life.

Until we meet again Sweetie.

We Love you,

Granny Su Su and Pa Pa Gary

Read More Read Less

1

Amy Bailey

Close

Jane Hao Doré

Four years ago, on December 15, at St. Paul Hospital in Hong Kong, you were born during Covid. Mommy still remembers your first cry; the first time I held you in my arms; the first time I fed you in the middle of the night; the first time you and Garlie met; the first time you fed yourself; the first time you walked like a little old grandma; and the first time you hit a softball—that was a great hit!

Every day, I endlessly ask myself what happened, why, and what if... Every month around the 25th, and on all the important dates of your life, mommy is swallowed by sorrow, as if the whole nightmare starts again—from the moment I saw you lying in the bed, covered by tubes; how mommy cleaned your teeth and your body; how they took your body away; how I held your cold body at the funeral home for hours until they asked me to go home; how they closed your casket, and that was the last time I saw your beautiful face. I remember how your brother carefully collected all the prayer cards and placed them into your casket. Mommy cried and screamed, “No, no… come back, my baby… no, no… no…”

People say they don’t know how we survive. I don’t know either. But here we are—almost four months since you passed. I believe it is because of the strength and love from our family, friends, and community, and because you give me strength. Mommy wants you to continue living through me, as part of a healthy and strong mommy. I know that one day we will reunite in Heaven, and until then, you are there—still living, still joining us from Joy of Heaven.

When I feel sad or frustrated, I can hear your voice: “No one can beat me!” “Mommy is my best friend. I love you!” and “Garlie, hustle, hustle.” Those words keep me going and help me smile. Every morning and every night, I can hear you saying, “Mommy, good morning,” and “Good night, I love you,” with your thumb in your mouth – as if that’s the most delicious food in the world.

Your friends at Ivybrook built a beautiful rainbow garden for you. I know it will be so beautiful when spring comes—just like you. You loved art and always wanted to create something beautiful.

Yesterday your brother baked an angel cake for you. He even made a beautiful heart that could stand on the cake using two candy canes. It was the most beautiful cake I have ever seen. I know you would have loved it.

Myra, we miss you, sweetheart. Mommy loves you—always.

Read More Read Less

5

Jim Dobbins

Melissa Carpenter

Amy Bailey

Bridgette & Jamiel Kadri

Sandy Chu

Close

David Doré

Happy Birthday, Myrabelle! We have cool plans to celebrate today ... Miss ya, sweetie!

Read More Read Less

3

1

Amy Bailey

Bridgette & Jamiel Kadri

Sandy Chu

Close

Comments:

Jane Hao Doré

Send my love to Heaven to our baby girl. Send my love to Heaven to our baby girl. Send my love to Heaven to our baby girl.

David Doré

In loving memory of Myrabelle Doré.

This video features a reading of her eulogy, "Eight Minutes and Twelve Seconds: For Our Myrabelle," recorded by her father, David Doré, on November 23, 2025.

This tribute was originally delivered on September 2, 2025, at Croghan Hall on the Prince of Peace Catholic Church & School campus in Greenville, SC.

Read More Read Less

4

2

Samuel Lauras

Amy Bailey

David Doré

Sandy Chu

Close

Comments:

Amy Bailey

Thank you for sharing this again, Dave. I was moved to tears in the same way as the first time I heard you... Read more Thank you for sharing this again, Dave. I was moved to tears in the same way as the first time I heard you read this beautiful... Read more Thank you for sharing this again, Dave. I was moved... Read more

David Doré

Hi folks, you can read our eulogy to Myrabelle at: https://everloved.com/media/event-program/ef280dd1-488b-404a-9c32-75638fb00af1.pdf... Read more Hi folks, you can read our eulogy to Myrabelle at: https://everloved.com/media/event-program/ef280dd1-488b-404a-9c32-75638fb00af1.pdf... Read more Hi folks, you can read our eulogy to Myrabelle at: ... Read more

Jane Hao Doré

Shared a heart

2

David Doré

Sandy Chu

Close

Christy McJunkin

David and Jane, I only spend one brief day with your family but your love for Myrabelle showed so big. Your family left a lasting impact with me. I loved being able to see Myrabelle through the photos that you have shared. It’s clear that her life was filled with joy and laughter in her short time on here. I am honored to have been able to serve your family during this time. I hope that you will begin to heal your hearts and minds. You are often in my thoughts and prayers.

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

David Doré

2

1

Amy Bailey

David Doré

Close

Comments:

David Doré

On September 5, 2025, we buried Myrabelle next to Columbarium 1 at Mt Pleasant Memorial Gardens. Charleston... Read more On September 5, 2025, we buried Myrabelle next to Columbarium 1 at Mt Pleasant Memorial Gardens. Charleston Garden C. Section... Read more On September 5, 2025, we buried Myrabelle next to Columbarium... Read more

Arsh Gupta

Dear Jane and family,

I'm terribly sorry for your loss and am heartbroken to hear about the sad news. I hold you in my thoughts and prayers, and send your family my wishes and support at this time. The love and positivity that your daughter brought to this world will never be forgotten in the people that she touched.

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

John Conlin

Shared a heart

1

David Doré

Close

David Doré

In loving memory of Myrabelle Doré.

This video is the Requiem Mass held at Prince of Peace Catholic Church (Greenville/Taylors, SC) on Tuesday, September 2, 2025, as family and friends gathered to honor her life, grieve together and say farewell.

Read More Read Less

2

Amy Bailey

David Doré

Close

Sandy Chu

Shared a heart

1

David Doré

Close

Andy Chelton

Pawleys Island, SC, USA

3

Sandy Chu

Amy Bailey

David Doré

Close

Andy Chelton

Pawleys Island, SC, USA

Myrabelle playing with Halle at the beach

Read More Read Less

3

Sandy Chu

Amy Bailey

David Doré

Close

Michelle Hoeniger

We are sending our heartfelt and most sincere condolences for the loss of your beautiful Myrabelle. Tracy's Team at Optum.

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

Karen Tawes

Shared a heart

1

David Doré

Close

Ke Suo

Shared a heart

1

David Doré

Close

Comments:

Ke Suo

I was really shocked to hear this sad news. She was such a lovely little girl, and her bright smile could... Read more I was really shocked to hear this sad news. She was such a lovely little girl, and her bright smile could melt anyone's heart.... Read more I was really shocked to hear this sad news. She was... Read more

Jane Hao Doré

With my broken heart and soul, I know they will never be complete again until one day Myra and I reunite in Heaven.

Read More Read Less

8

2

Susie Munoz

Amy Bailey

Michelle Goldsberry

Sharon Tunney

Hedy Ho

Kevin Smith

Christy McJunkin

David Doré

Close

Comments:

Susie Munoz

So beautiful. Such precious memories❤️ So beautiful. Such precious memories❤️ So beautiful. Such precious memories❤️

Sharon Tunney

What a beautiful video. My mom heart breaks so much for you Jane. May this video and all the others always... Read more What a beautiful video. My mom heart breaks so much for you Jane. May this video and all the others always make you smile with... Read more What a beautiful video. My mom heart breaks so much... Read more

David Doré

6

3

Sandy Chu

Amy Bailey

Susie Munoz

Tripp Cuttino

Christine Williams

David Doré

Close

Comments:

David Doré

A Sunday walk with your brother

Dear Myrabelle, it’s Daddy.

We talk to you every day. We look at your pictures and tell your stories. We will always do that. And we also need to take care of your big brother’s heart. Loving you means loving him, too. We need to help him feel safe, heard and brave while we carry you together.

Yesterday was Sunday, one week after your terrible boo-boo. Mommy went to visit you at the funeral home to make sure you were safe and comfortable. Garlie and Daddy took a long walk through some of your favorite places so we could tell you about them.

We started at Cleveland Park to see if the new Brooks’ Playground was open. It wasn’t yet. It’s the one near the Julie Valentine memorial, built so all kinds of kids can play together. I wished you could have tried the ramps and spinners; I could almost see your hands on the rails, testing everything twice.

We wandered back toward the zoo and your old playground. We took a selfie under the same tree we used as a soccer goal three weeks ago. As we walked to the minivan, Garlie looked up at the branches and spoke very softly. He felt nervous. “What if a branch falls? What if it fell on you, Daddy?”

I wish I’d had perfect words right then. Here is what I’ll tell him now ... and next time, in the moment: “Thank you for telling me, buddy. Your body remembers something scary. It makes sense to feel nervous. I’m right here. Let’s step out from the trees, hold hands and take three slow breaths. We’ll keep looking up together and choose places that feel safe.” We’re learning how to do this as a family: one careful step, one deep breath, one brave truth at a time.

We parked near Mommy’s office and made a small detour to the South Carolina Children’s Theatre. The last show we saw there together was "Matilda" in April. It's a story about you, sweety: a little girl with a big mind who speaks up, finds kind helpers and proves that even small people can do brave, important things. After the show a kind stranger took our picture (see collage above): Garlie grinning, Mommy puzzled by something, you right on the edge of a cry (maybe you didn’t want a photo), and me just glad we were all in one frame. I love that picture because it’s a tiny mosaic—four faces, four feelings, all true at once. We had hoped you’d try a class there this fall: make-believe, stories and play to help little voices grow. You would have loved the pretending.

We turned down Augusta Street, cut across University and peeked at the County Square construction. Big machines sleeping on a quiet Sunday. Then we slipped into Falls Park, followed Vardry Creek and let the water show us the way. Smooth, flat rocks. Small splashes. We climbed the uneven, stone steps by Falls Cottage and paused above the Lower Amphitheater for a photo. Bright flowers, pops of colors splashed all around and the falls sounding like a long, friendly “shhh.”

Next stop: Unity Park. The lot was full, but we found a space and went straight to the big play area. We visited your balancing-beam log. “Watch this,” Garlie said, and he walked backward all the way across. Arms up: “I did it! I did it!” Loud as a Hong Kong street, which fits him perfectly. He slid down the little turf hill on his bottom, then sat at the top to watch older kids try pieces of cardboard. There’s a sign that says to slide or roll—no cardboard. He told them, “I don’t think cardboard is allowed. That’s what the sign says.” Daddy smirked as Garlie's sense of duty and safety matured.

When it was time, we went to pick up Mommy. She came out with a few things that made her feel calm, and Garlie jumped out to hold the door for her. She told us she had made sure your blanket was just right.

One more stop before home. It was about the same hour as your boo-boo a week ago. We had printed invitations for first responders so they would know about your services. There’s a fire station near our house. We rang the bell, and a firefighter opened the door. We told him who we were and handed him the note. He looked surprised, then kind. Daddy asked if Garlie could see a truck. He said yes. We took a picture with the big red engine—Garlie thumbs up, the firefighter smiling. Then Garlie climbed into the driver’s seat. Daddy had a flashback to February at EdVenture in Columbia: you in the right seat of the pretend engine, Garlie “driving,” and me saying, “Garlen’s driving the fire truck. Myrabelle’s helping.” We need your help now more than ever, sweet girl.

That was our Sunday; your city in small pieces. The not-yet-open playground we’ll visit in stories. Our soccer spot by the zoo. A mosaic photo at the theater. Creek water over worn stones. Flowers above the amphitheater. The balancing-beam log (backwards!). A fire truck and a friendly hello.

Garlie talked about you all day ... in his own way. He asked questions. We laughed. Daddy cried. He opened the door for Mommy. He is your brother and your best friend. He misses you in the big ways and the small ones. We all do.

We will keep walking your paths and telling you what we see. We will keep helping each other feel safe. And we will keep looking for your little signs; you know, the ones that make us breathe easier and smile.

We love you. Always.

Love,
Daddy

A Sunday walk with your brother

Dear Myrabelle, it’s Daddy.

We talk to you every day. We look at your... Read more pictures and tell your stories. We will always do that. And we also need to take care of your big brother’s heart. Loving you means loving him, too. We need to help him feel safe, heard and brave while we carry you together.

Yesterday was Sunday, one week after your terrible boo-boo. Mommy went to visit you at the funeral home to make sure you were safe and comfortable. Garlie and Daddy took a long walk through some of your favorite places so we could tell you about them.

We started at Cleveland Park to see if the new Brooks’ Playground was open. It wasn’t yet. It’s the one near the Julie Valentine memorial, built so all kinds of kids can play together. I wished you could have tried the ramps and spinners; I could almost see your hands on the rails, testing everything twice.

We wandered back toward the zoo and your old playground. We took a selfie under the same tree we used as a soccer goal three weeks ago. As we walked to the minivan, Garlie looked up at the branches and spoke very softly. He felt nervous. “What if a branch falls? What if it fell on you, Daddy?”

I wish I’d had perfect words right then. Here is what I’ll tell him now ... and next time, in the moment: “Thank you for telling me, buddy. Your body remembers something scary. It makes sense to feel nervous. I’m right here. Let’s step out from the trees, hold hands and take three slow breaths. We’ll keep looking up together and choose places that feel safe.” We’re learning how to do this as a family: one careful step, one deep breath, one brave truth at a time.

We parked near Mommy’s office and made a small detour to the South Carolina Children’s Theatre. The last show we saw there together was "Matilda" in April. It's a story about you, sweety: a little girl with a big mind who speaks up, finds kind helpers and proves that even small people can do brave, important things. After the show a kind stranger took our picture (see collage above): Garlie grinning, Mommy puzzled by something, you right on the edge of a cry (maybe you didn’t want a photo), and me just glad we were all in one frame. I love that picture because it’s a tiny mosaic—four faces, four feelings, all true at once. We had hoped you’d try a class there this fall: make-believe, stories and play to help little voices grow. You would have loved the pretending.

We turned down Augusta Street, cut across University and peeked at the County Square construction. Big machines sleeping on a quiet Sunday. Then we slipped into Falls Park, followed Vardry Creek and let the water show us the way. Smooth, flat rocks. Small splashes. We climbed the uneven, stone steps by Falls Cottage and paused above the Lower Amphitheater for a photo. Bright flowers, pops of colors splashed all around and the falls sounding like a long, friendly “shhh.”

Next stop: Unity Park. The lot was full, but we found a space and went straight to the big play area. We visited your balancing-beam log. “Watch this,” Garlie said, and he walked backward all the way across. Arms up: “I did it! I did it!” Loud as a Hong Kong street, which fits him perfectly. He slid down the little turf hill on his bottom, then sat at the top to watch older kids try pieces of cardboard. There’s a sign that says to slide or roll—no cardboard. He told them, “I don’t think cardboard is allowed. That’s what the sign says.” Daddy smirked as Garlie's sense of duty and safety matured.

When it was time, we went to pick up Mommy. She came out with a few things that made her feel calm, and Garlie jumped out to hold the door for her. She told us she had made sure your blanket was just right.

One more stop before home. It was about the same hour as your boo-boo a week ago. We had printed invitations for first responders so they would know about your services. There’s a fire station near our house. We rang the bell, and a firefighter opened the door. We told him who we were and handed him the note. He looked surprised, then kind. Daddy asked if Garlie could see a truck. He said yes. We took a picture with the big red engine—Garlie thumbs up, the firefighter smiling. Then Garlie climbed into the driver’s seat. Daddy had a flashback to February at EdVenture in Columbia: you in the right seat of the pretend engine, Garlie “driving,” and me saying, “Garlen’s driving the fire truck. Myrabelle’s helping.” We need your help now more than ever, sweet girl.

That was our Sunday; your city in small pieces. The not-yet-open playground we’ll visit in stories. Our soccer spot by the zoo. A mosaic photo at the theater. Creek water over worn stones. Flowers above the amphitheater. The balancing-beam log (backwards!). A fire truck and a friendly hello.

Garlie talked about you all day ... in his own way. He asked questions. We laughed. Daddy cried. He opened the door for Mommy. He is your brother and your best friend. He misses you in the big ways and the small ones. We all do.

We will keep walking your paths and telling you what we see. We will keep helping each other feel safe. And we will keep looking for your little signs; you know, the ones that make us breathe easier and smile.

We love you. Always.

Love,
Daddy Read less A Sunday walk with your brother

Dear Myrabelle, it’s Daddy.

We talk to you every day. We look at your pictures and tell ... Read moreyour stories. We will always do that. And we also need to take care of your big brother’s heart. Loving you means loving him, too. We need to help him feel safe, heard and brave while we carry you together.

Yesterday was Sunday, one week after your terrible boo-boo. Mommy went to visit you at the funeral home to make sure you were safe and comfortable. Garlie and Daddy took a long walk through some of your favorite places so we could tell you about them.

We started at Cleveland Park to see if the new Brooks’ Playground was open. It wasn’t yet. It’s the one near the Julie Valentine memorial, built so all kinds of kids can play together. I wished you could have tried the ramps and spinners; I could almost see your hands on the rails, testing everything twice.

We wandered back toward the zoo and your old playground. We took a selfie under the same tree we used as a soccer goal three weeks ago. As we walked to the minivan, Garlie looked up at the branches and spoke very softly. He felt nervous. “What if a branch falls? What if it fell on you, Daddy?”

I wish I’d had perfect words right then. Here is what I’ll tell him now ... and next time, in the moment: “Thank you for telling me, buddy. Your body remembers something scary. It makes sense to feel nervous. I’m right here. Let’s step out from the trees, hold hands and take three slow breaths. We’ll keep looking up together and choose places that feel safe.” We’re learning how to do this as a family: one careful step, one deep breath, one brave truth at a time.

We parked near Mommy’s office and made a small detour to the South Carolina Children’s Theatre. The last show we saw there together was "Matilda" in April. It's a story about you, sweety: a little girl with a big mind who speaks up, finds kind helpers and proves that even small people can do brave, important things. After the show a kind stranger took our picture (see collage above): Garlie grinning, Mommy puzzled by something, you right on the edge of a cry (maybe you didn’t want a photo), and me just glad we were all in one frame. I love that picture because it’s a tiny mosaic—four faces, four feelings, all true at once. We had hoped you’d try a class there this fall: make-believe, stories and play to help little voices grow. You would have loved the pretending.

We turned down Augusta Street, cut across University and peeked at the County Square construction. Big machines sleeping on a quiet Sunday. Then we slipped into Falls Park, followed Vardry Creek and let the water show us the way. Smooth, flat rocks. Small splashes. We climbed the uneven, stone steps by Falls Cottage and paused above the Lower Amphitheater for a photo. Bright flowers, pops of colors splashed all around and the falls sounding like a long, friendly “shhh.”

Next stop: Unity Park. The lot was full, but we found a space and went straight to the big play area. We visited your balancing-beam log. “Watch this,” Garlie said, and he walked backward all the way across. Arms up: “I did it! I did it!” Loud as a Hong Kong street, which fits him perfectly. He slid down the little turf hill on his bottom, then sat at the top to watch older kids try pieces of cardboard. There’s a sign that says to slide or roll—no cardboard. He told them, “I don’t think cardboard is allowed. That’s what the sign says.” Daddy smirked as Garlie's sense of duty and safety matured.

When it was time, we went to pick up Mommy. She came out with a few things that made her feel calm, and Garlie jumped out to hold the door for her. She told us she had made sure your blanket was just right.

One more stop before home. It was about the same hour as your boo-boo a week ago. We had printed invitations for first responders so they would know about your services. There’s a fire station near our house. We rang the bell, and a firefighter opened the door. We told him who we were and handed him the note. He looked surprised, then kind. Daddy asked if Garlie could see a truck. He said yes. We took a picture with the big red engine—Garlie thumbs up, the firefighter smiling. Then Garlie climbed into the driver’s seat. Daddy had a flashback to February at EdVenture in Columbia: you in the right seat of the pretend engine, Garlie “driving,” and me saying, “Garlen’s driving the fire truck. Myrabelle’s helping.” We need your help now more than ever, sweet girl.

That was our Sunday; your city in small pieces. The not-yet-open playground we’ll visit in stories. Our soccer spot by the zoo. A mosaic photo at the theater. Creek water over worn stones. Flowers above the amphitheater. The balancing-beam log (backwards!). A fire truck and a friendly hello.

Garlie talked about you all day ... in his own way. He asked questions. We laughed. Daddy cried. He opened the door for Mommy. He is your brother and your best friend. He misses you in the big ways and the small ones. We all do.

We will keep walking your paths and telling you what we see. We will keep helping each other feel safe. And we will keep looking for your little signs; you know, the ones that make us breathe easier and smile.

We love you. Always.

Love,
Daddy Read less A Sunday walk with your brother

Dear Myrabelle, ... Read moreit’s Daddy.

We talk to you every day. We look at your pictures and tell your stories. We will always do that. And we also need to take care of your big brother’s heart. Loving you means loving him, too. We need to help him feel safe, heard and brave while we carry you together.

Yesterday was Sunday, one week after your terrible boo-boo. Mommy went to visit you at the funeral home to make sure you were safe and comfortable. Garlie and Daddy took a long walk through some of your favorite places so we could tell you about them.

We started at Cleveland Park to see if the new Brooks’ Playground was open. It wasn’t yet. It’s the one near the Julie Valentine memorial, built so all kinds of kids can play together. I wished you could have tried the ramps and spinners; I could almost see your hands on the rails, testing everything twice.

We wandered back toward the zoo and your old playground. We took a selfie under the same tree we used as a soccer goal three weeks ago. As we walked to the minivan, Garlie looked up at the branches and spoke very softly. He felt nervous. “What if a branch falls? What if it fell on you, Daddy?”

I wish I’d had perfect words right then. Here is what I’ll tell him now ... and next time, in the moment: “Thank you for telling me, buddy. Your body remembers something scary. It makes sense to feel nervous. I’m right here. Let’s step out from the trees, hold hands and take three slow breaths. We’ll keep looking up together and choose places that feel safe.” We’re learning how to do this as a family: one careful step, one deep breath, one brave truth at a time.

We parked near Mommy’s office and made a small detour to the South Carolina Children’s Theatre. The last show we saw there together was "Matilda" in April. It's a story about you, sweety: a little girl with a big mind who speaks up, finds kind helpers and proves that even small people can do brave, important things. After the show a kind stranger took our picture (see collage above): Garlie grinning, Mommy puzzled by something, you right on the edge of a cry (maybe you didn’t want a photo), and me just glad we were all in one frame. I love that picture because it’s a tiny mosaic—four faces, four feelings, all true at once. We had hoped you’d try a class there this fall: make-believe, stories and play to help little voices grow. You would have loved the pretending.

We turned down Augusta Street, cut across University and peeked at the County Square construction. Big machines sleeping on a quiet Sunday. Then we slipped into Falls Park, followed Vardry Creek and let the water show us the way. Smooth, flat rocks. Small splashes. We climbed the uneven, stone steps by Falls Cottage and paused above the Lower Amphitheater for a photo. Bright flowers, pops of colors splashed all around and the falls sounding like a long, friendly “shhh.”

Next stop: Unity Park. The lot was full, but we found a space and went straight to the big play area. We visited your balancing-beam log. “Watch this,” Garlie said, and he walked backward all the way across. Arms up: “I did it! I did it!” Loud as a Hong Kong street, which fits him perfectly. He slid down the little turf hill on his bottom, then sat at the top to watch older kids try pieces of cardboard. There’s a sign that says to slide or roll—no cardboard. He told them, “I don’t think cardboard is allowed. That’s what the sign says.” Daddy smirked as Garlie's sense of duty and safety matured.

When it was time, we went to pick up Mommy. She came out with a few things that made her feel calm, and Garlie jumped out to hold the door for her. She told us she had made sure your blanket was just right.

One more stop before home. It was about the same hour as your boo-boo a week ago. We had printed invitations for first responders so they would know about your services. There’s a fire station near our house. We rang the bell, and a firefighter opened the door. We told him who we were and handed him the note. He looked surprised, then kind. Daddy asked if Garlie could see a truck. He said yes. We took a picture with the big red engine—Garlie thumbs up, the firefighter smiling. Then Garlie climbed into the driver’s seat. Daddy had a flashback to February at EdVenture in Columbia: you in the right seat of the pretend engine, Garlie “driving,” and me saying, “Garlen’s driving the fire truck. Myrabelle’s helping.” We need your help now more than ever, sweet girl.

That was our Sunday; your city in small pieces. The not-yet-open playground we’ll visit in stories. Our soccer spot by the zoo. A mosaic photo at the theater. Creek water over worn stones. Flowers above the amphitheater. The balancing-beam log (backwards!). A fire truck and a friendly hello.

Garlie talked about you all day ... in his own way. He asked questions. We laughed. Daddy cried. He opened the door for Mommy. He is your brother and your best friend. He misses you in the big ways and the small ones. We all do.

We will keep walking your paths and telling you what we see. We will keep helping each other feel safe. And we will keep looking for your little signs; you know, the ones that make us breathe easier and smile.

We love you. Always.

Love,
Daddy Read less

Susie Munoz

Beautifully written❤️ Beautifully written❤️ Beautifully written❤️

Sharon Tunney

You write so well that I feel like I am right at those places with you both and Garlen will always have these... Read more You write so well that I feel like I am right at those places with you both and Garlen will always have these letters to read ... Read more You write so well that I feel like I am right at those... Read more

David Doré

2024, Ivybrook Academy, Pelham Road, Greenville, SC, USA

Myrabelle at preschool: small hands, steady drum, that heart-warming smile

Read More Read Less

5

2

Sandy Chu

Amy Bailey

Susie Munoz

Christine Williams

David Doré

Close

Comments:

David Doré

Dear Myrabelle, Since your terrible boo-boo, when I do sleep it is gentle. Sleep is a gossamer blanket that quiets the house. Then I wake—midnight, four a.m., whenever—and the truth rushes back. Grief comes like waves at the beach, cold, unrelenting and full. I know I will not drift off again, so I sit at the dining table and write. Tonight I want to tell you a small story. Yesterday one of your preschool teachers at Ivybrook Academy shared a photo. It makes our hearts ache and glow at once: you on the classroom rug, the drum skin warm against your hands, eyes bright, hand mid-beat. I can almost hear it—dum, dum, dum—joy keeping time. I can almost feel the rug fibers and the soft hum of a room full of small voices. These are the years when a child’s world widens. First it is Mommy and Daddy. Soon there are teachers and classmates and kind adults who learn your nicknames, the snack you always ask for, and your little quirks. Your circle was widening last year and blooming even more this year. We could see it in your face. Before 3-K at Prince of Peace, you went to Ivybrook. We chose it because we believe that learning is tender work. It happens in play and questions and patient hands. Ivybrook felt like that kind of place. They let children work together. They put real things in small hands. They notice that kids are smart in many different ways. We are not experts. We only knew those ideas fit you ... a little girl who learned with her whole body, tapping, twirling, asking, trying again. Most mornings I did drop-off at eight and picked you up at noon. The minivan smelled like coffee. At pickup I slid the van door open and you sang out “Daddy!” and climbed in, bringing in a much-needed dose of cheer into the day's tedium. “What did you learn today?” I asked. We practiced the choreography of water bottle, tiny backpack, smile at the door. Even on your first day last August you did not cling. You walked in with steady steps, ready to make something. One afternoon a teacher brought you out and said, smiling, “She’s out of her shell. I had no idea. She is precious.” We saw it at home too—more sparkle, more opinions, a bigger laugh. If I used fancy words I would say this: you decided the world was ready for more you. The note that came with the photo undid us. Your teacher wrote that it “captures her sweet, joyful nature and that heart-warming smile,” and called you intelligent, thoughtful, creative. She thanked us for the blessing of being your teacher. I read those words aloud, then looked back at your face. It is the look you had when you solved something and wanted to show the room. Afternoons were for adventures. Over the summer, you tried a dance camp and loved the music and the big mirrors. We were weighing fall classes. Maybe ballet someday, but I thought you were a Hip-Hop Tots spirit: wiggly rockets, groove-finders, beats that ask for jumping. In your last month, you discovered Michael Jackson's Thriller music video. Before dinner, we propped Mommy’s phone on the table. You wiggled and stomped, then fell into giggles while Garlie asked if the King of Pop's eyes really glowed yellow. Soccer was coming too. When Garlie was your age he did HappyFeet in Charleston, and we were looking for something like it here. In the yard you had a move of your own. If Garlie had the soccer ball, you ran to one of us and set a small, perfect pick like a six-ten power forward, clearing his path. You only came up to our waist, which made it funnier, and you laughed every time. You knew how to help the play even without the ball. This is what school and simple things gave you this year: more people to love and be loved by, more chances to try, to make, to drum, to laugh. The circle widened. You colored it in. We whisper thank you to the teachers who saw you so clearly. And we keep listening for that steady little rhythm—dum, dum, dum—and remembering how beautifully you kept the beat. Love, Daddy

Dear Myrabelle, Since your terrible boo-boo, when I do sleep it is gentle. Sleep is a gossamer blanket that... Read more quiets the house. Then I wake—midnight, four a.m., whenever—and the truth rushes back. Grief comes like waves at the beach, cold, unrelenting and full. I know I will not drift off again, so I sit at the dining table and write. Tonight I want to tell you a small story. Yesterday one of your preschool teachers at Ivybrook Academy shared a photo. It makes our hearts ache and glow at once: you on the classroom rug, the drum skin warm against your hands, eyes bright, hand mid-beat. I can almost hear it—dum, dum, dum—joy keeping time. I can almost feel the rug fibers and the soft hum of a room full of small voices. These are the years when a child’s world widens. First it is Mommy and Daddy. Soon there are teachers and classmates and kind adults who learn your nicknames, the snack you always ask for, and your little quirks. Your circle was widening last year and blooming even more this year. We could see it in your face. Before 3-K at Prince of Peace, you went to Ivybrook. We chose it because we believe that learning is tender work. It happens in play and questions and patient hands. Ivybrook felt like that kind of place. They let children work together. They put real things in small hands. They notice that kids are smart in many different ways. We are not experts. We only knew those ideas fit you ... a little girl who learned with her whole body, tapping, twirling, asking, trying again. Most mornings I did drop-off at eight and picked you up at noon. The minivan smelled like coffee. At pickup I slid the van door open and you sang out “Daddy!” and climbed in, bringing in a much-needed dose of cheer into the day's tedium. “What did you learn today?” I asked. We practiced the choreography of water bottle, tiny backpack, smile at the door. Even on your first day last August you did not cling. You walked in with steady steps, ready to make something. One afternoon a teacher brought you out and said, smiling, “She’s out of her shell. I had no idea. She is precious.” We saw it at home too—more sparkle, more opinions, a bigger laugh. If I used fancy words I would say this: you decided the world was ready for more you. The note that came with the photo undid us. Your teacher wrote that it “captures her sweet, joyful nature and that heart-warming smile,” and called you intelligent, thoughtful, creative. She thanked us for the blessing of being your teacher. I read those words aloud, then looked back at your face. It is the look you had when you solved something and wanted to show the room. Afternoons were for adventures. Over the summer, you tried a dance camp and loved the music and the big mirrors. We were weighing fall classes. Maybe ballet someday, but I thought you were a Hip-Hop Tots spirit: wiggly rockets, groove-finders, beats that ask for jumping. In your last month, you discovered Michael Jackson's Thriller music video. Before dinner, we propped Mommy’s phone on the table. You wiggled and stomped, then fell into giggles while Garlie asked if the King of Pop's eyes really glowed yellow. Soccer was coming too. When Garlie was your age he did HappyFeet in Charleston, and we were looking for something like it here. In the yard you had a move of your own. If Garlie had the soccer ball, you ran to one of us and set a small, perfect pick like a six-ten power forward, clearing his path. You only came up to our waist, which made it funnier, and you laughed every time. You knew how to help the play even without the ball. This is what school and simple things gave you this year: more people to love and be loved by, more chances to try, to make, to drum, to laugh. The circle widened. You colored it in. We whisper thank you to the teachers who saw you so clearly. And we keep listening for that steady little rhythm—dum, dum, dum—and remembering how beautifully you kept the beat. Love, Daddy Read less Dear Myrabelle, Since your terrible boo-boo, when I do sleep it is gentle. Sleep is a gossamer blanket that quiets the house. ... Read moreThen I wake—midnight, four a.m., whenever—and the truth rushes back. Grief comes like waves at the beach, cold, unrelenting and full. I know I will not drift off again, so I sit at the dining table and write. Tonight I want to tell you a small story. Yesterday one of your preschool teachers at Ivybrook Academy shared a photo. It makes our hearts ache and glow at once: you on the classroom rug, the drum skin warm against your hands, eyes bright, hand mid-beat. I can almost hear it—dum, dum, dum—joy keeping time. I can almost feel the rug fibers and the soft hum of a room full of small voices. These are the years when a child’s world widens. First it is Mommy and Daddy. Soon there are teachers and classmates and kind adults who learn your nicknames, the snack you always ask for, and your little quirks. Your circle was widening last year and blooming even more this year. We could see it in your face. Before 3-K at Prince of Peace, you went to Ivybrook. We chose it because we believe that learning is tender work. It happens in play and questions and patient hands. Ivybrook felt like that kind of place. They let children work together. They put real things in small hands. They notice that kids are smart in many different ways. We are not experts. We only knew those ideas fit you ... a little girl who learned with her whole body, tapping, twirling, asking, trying again. Most mornings I did drop-off at eight and picked you up at noon. The minivan smelled like coffee. At pickup I slid the van door open and you sang out “Daddy!” and climbed in, bringing in a much-needed dose of cheer into the day's tedium. “What did you learn today?” I asked. We practiced the choreography of water bottle, tiny backpack, smile at the door. Even on your first day last August you did not cling. You walked in with steady steps, ready to make something. One afternoon a teacher brought you out and said, smiling, “She’s out of her shell. I had no idea. She is precious.” We saw it at home too—more sparkle, more opinions, a bigger laugh. If I used fancy words I would say this: you decided the world was ready for more you. The note that came with the photo undid us. Your teacher wrote that it “captures her sweet, joyful nature and that heart-warming smile,” and called you intelligent, thoughtful, creative. She thanked us for the blessing of being your teacher. I read those words aloud, then looked back at your face. It is the look you had when you solved something and wanted to show the room. Afternoons were for adventures. Over the summer, you tried a dance camp and loved the music and the big mirrors. We were weighing fall classes. Maybe ballet someday, but I thought you were a Hip-Hop Tots spirit: wiggly rockets, groove-finders, beats that ask for jumping. In your last month, you discovered Michael Jackson's Thriller music video. Before dinner, we propped Mommy’s phone on the table. You wiggled and stomped, then fell into giggles while Garlie asked if the King of Pop's eyes really glowed yellow. Soccer was coming too. When Garlie was your age he did HappyFeet in Charleston, and we were looking for something like it here. In the yard you had a move of your own. If Garlie had the soccer ball, you ran to one of us and set a small, perfect pick like a six-ten power forward, clearing his path. You only came up to our waist, which made it funnier, and you laughed every time. You knew how to help the play even without the ball. This is what school and simple things gave you this year: more people to love and be loved by, more chances to try, to make, to drum, to laugh. The circle widened. You colored it in. We whisper thank you to the teachers who saw you so clearly. And we keep listening for that steady little rhythm—dum, dum, dum—and remembering how beautifully you kept the beat. Love, Daddy Read less Dear Myrabelle, Since your terrible boo-boo, when I... Read more do sleep it is gentle. Sleep is a gossamer blanket that quiets the house. Then I wake—midnight, four a.m., whenever—and the truth rushes back. Grief comes like waves at the beach, cold, unrelenting and full. I know I will not drift off again, so I sit at the dining table and write. Tonight I want to tell you a small story. Yesterday one of your preschool teachers at Ivybrook Academy shared a photo. It makes our hearts ache and glow at once: you on the classroom rug, the drum skin warm against your hands, eyes bright, hand mid-beat. I can almost hear it—dum, dum, dum—joy keeping time. I can almost feel the rug fibers and the soft hum of a room full of small voices. These are the years when a child’s world widens. First it is Mommy and Daddy. Soon there are teachers and classmates and kind adults who learn your nicknames, the snack you always ask for, and your little quirks. Your circle was widening last year and blooming even more this year. We could see it in your face. Before 3-K at Prince of Peace, you went to Ivybrook. We chose it because we believe that learning is tender work. It happens in play and questions and patient hands. Ivybrook felt like that kind of place. They let children work together. They put real things in small hands. They notice that kids are smart in many different ways. We are not experts. We only knew those ideas fit you ... a little girl who learned with her whole body, tapping, twirling, asking, trying again. Most mornings I did drop-off at eight and picked you up at noon. The minivan smelled like coffee. At pickup I slid the van door open and you sang out “Daddy!” and climbed in, bringing in a much-needed dose of cheer into the day's tedium. “What did you learn today?” I asked. We practiced the choreography of water bottle, tiny backpack, smile at the door. Even on your first day last August you did not cling. You walked in with steady steps, ready to make something. One afternoon a teacher brought you out and said, smiling, “She’s out of her shell. I had no idea. She is precious.” We saw it at home too—more sparkle, more opinions, a bigger laugh. If I used fancy words I would say this: you decided the world was ready for more you. The note that came with the photo undid us. Your teacher wrote that it “captures her sweet, joyful nature and that heart-warming smile,” and called you intelligent, thoughtful, creative. She thanked us for the blessing of being your teacher. I read those words aloud, then looked back at your face. It is the look you had when you solved something and wanted to show the room. Afternoons were for adventures. Over the summer, you tried a dance camp and loved the music and the big mirrors. We were weighing fall classes. Maybe ballet someday, but I thought you were a Hip-Hop Tots spirit: wiggly rockets, groove-finders, beats that ask for jumping. In your last month, you discovered Michael Jackson's Thriller music video. Before dinner, we propped Mommy’s phone on the table. You wiggled and stomped, then fell into giggles while Garlie asked if the King of Pop's eyes really glowed yellow. Soccer was coming too. When Garlie was your age he did HappyFeet in Charleston, and we were looking for something like it here. In the yard you had a move of your own. If Garlie had the soccer ball, you ran to one of us and set a small, perfect pick like a six-ten power forward, clearing his path. You only came up to our waist, which made it funnier, and you laughed every time. You knew how to help the play even without the ball. This is what school and simple things gave you this year: more people to love and be loved by, more chances to try, to make, to drum, to laugh. The circle widened. You colored it in. We whisper thank you to the teachers who saw you so clearly. And we keep listening for that steady little rhythm—dum, dum, dum—and remembering how beautifully you kept the beat. Love, Daddy Read less

Susie Munoz

Dave, that is so beautifully written. It truly captures the spirit of our Myrabelle❤️❤️❤️ Dave, that is so beautifully written. It truly captures the spirit of our Myrabelle❤️❤️❤️ Dave, that is so beautifully written. It truly captures... Read more

Paul Cho

Jane and Dave -

We are so sorry for your loss. Please know you and your family are in our thoughts.

Sincerely,

Paul & Jo-Ann Cho

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

Simone Forman

Dear Jane, Dave, and Family, My heart goes out to you in this time of profound loss. Though I can’t fully grasp the depth of your sorrow, please know you are held close in my heart, thoughts and prayers. May the treasured memories of Myrabelle bring you moments of comfort and peace, and may you feel surrounded by warmth, compassion, and unwavering support as you walk through this difficult time.

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

Sharon Tunney

Dear Dave, Jane and Garlen—No words can take away your pain but know that you are very much in my thoughts and prayers. May your memories of Myrabelle always lift you up and keep you strong.

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

David Doré

Shared a heart

Close

Kate Skowronek

Jane and family, my deepest condolences for your loss. You are in my thoughts and prayers during this difficult time, and I hope that cherished memories of Myrabelle bring you comfort

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

Cheng Yang

Dear Jane and Family - This is such a heartbreaking loss. Though words cannot ease the pain, Myrabelle will always be remembered with love, and the bond you share can never be broken. I hope you feel surrounded by care and support during this difficult time.

Read More Read Less

1

David Doré

Close

Notifications

Myrabelle Josephine Doré

Memories & condolences

In lieu of flowers

Want to see more?

Get grief support

Recent contributions

In lieu of flowers

Recent contributions

Recent contributions

Share this memorial website

Notifications

Myrabelle Josephine Doré

Memories & condolences

In lieu of flowers

Want to see more?

Get grief support

Recent contributions

In lieu of flowers

Recent contributions

Recent contributions

Share this memorial website

Stay in the loop

Stay in the loop