Obituary Examples for a Son or Daughter

An obituary for your child is the one nobody should have to write. What follows will not make it easier; nothing does. It gives you a shape, so that the deciding is done and only the remembering is left, and a few examples of parents who found words. Every name is invented. Take whatever is useful and ignore the rest.

What nobody can ask of you

• You do not have to say how they died. "Died suddenly" and "died unexpectedly" are whole sentences. If you want to say it, that is your right too, and many parents do.
• You do not have to be brief. The newspaper may charge; the memorial page does not.
• You do not have to write it alone, or at all. A sister, a friend, a pastor can write it with you. You can answer questions and let it be shaped for you.
• You do not have to get it perfect. It can be changed on the page later.

A young child

Lily Grace Morrison, age 6, of Boise, died on September 5, 2026, after a courageous year with leukemia, held by her mother and father.

Lily loved horses, purple, her big brother Ben, and being the boss of every game. She named all the nurses on the fourth floor of St. Luke's and drew each of them a picture, which are still on the wall. She was learning to read and could not be stopped from reading the Magic Tree House series to her stuffed animals in a stern voice. She wanted to be a vet, a princess and a firefighter, in that order, and told us she had time.

She is survived by her parents, Tom and Rachel Morrison; her brother, Ben, 9; her grandparents; and her dog, Pancake. A celebration of Lily's life will be held Saturday, September 13, at 10:00 a.m. at Hillcrest Church. Please wear purple. The family asks that gifts go to the pediatric oncology unit at St. Luke's, for the wall.

A teenager

Jordan Michael Reyes, 17, of Fresno, died on September 9, 2026, in a car accident, on his way home from practice.

Jordan was a senior at Bullard High School, a linebacker who was prouder of his B in calculus than of any tackle, and the kind of friend who answered his phone at 2 a.m. He worked weekends at his uncle's tire shop, was saving for a truck he had already named, and had, his mother notes, finally started making his bed. He was funny in a way that snuck up on you. He was going to Fresno State in the fall to study engineering and he was going to be good at it.

He is survived by his parents, Miguel and Ana Reyes; his sisters, Isabella and Camila; his grandparents; and his teammates, who carried him. A funeral Mass will be held Saturday, September 20, at 10:00 a.m. at St. Anthony's, followed by a gathering at the Bullard field house. Wear his number. It is 52.

A young adult

Hannah Elizabeth Cole, 26, of Portland, Maine, died on September 1, 2026, unexpectedly, in the city she had just moved to and already loved.

Hannah was a nurse at Maine Medical Center, eleven months into the job she had wanted since she was nine. She ran, badly and happily, every morning. She adopted a one-eyed cat named Admiral against all advice. She called her mother every day at 5:15 and her grandmother every Sunday, and she was, according to all of her friends, the person you called first. She had plans. She had a whiteboard of them.

She is survived by her parents, David and Karen Cole; her brother, Matthew; her grandmother, Ruth; and Admiral, who has gone to live with Matthew. A celebration of her life will be held Saturday, September 13, at 2:00 p.m. at Fort Williams Park, by the lighthouse, where she ran.

An adult child

A parent outliving a grown child writes a different obituary: the child had a whole life, a family, a career, and the parent is often one line in a list of survivors. It is right for the parents to say, somewhere, that this was their child.

Steven Robert Nakamura, 48, of Sacramento, died on September 10, 2026, after a two-year illness, with his wife and his parents beside him.

Steve was an architect, a Little League coach, the husband of Jenna for nineteen years and the father of Emma and Kai, who were the point of everything. He was also, always, our son. He was the boy who took apart the toaster at six and put it back together, mostly. He was the teenager who drove his grandmother to church every Sunday without being asked. He was the man who called his mother from every job site he ever visited to tell her what the building was going to be. We were proud of him every single day, and we told him so.

He is survived by Jenna, Emma and Kai; his parents, Robert and Alice Nakamura; his sister, Lisa; and the buildings. A service will be held Saturday, September 20, at 11:00 a.m. at Sacramento Buddhist Church.

A death by suicide or overdose

More families are choosing to say it. Some do not, and both are right. What every one of these obituaries can do is refuse the idea that the death was the person: put the illness in one sentence and the child in all the rest.

Tyler James Brennan, 23, of Akron, Ohio, died on September 6, 2026, of an overdose, after a long fight with addiction that he was winning more days than not.

Tyler was the funniest person in every room, a gifted guitar player who wrote songs he would only play for his little sister, and a line cook at Luigi's who could not be rattled on a Saturday night. He loved the Browns without reservation, which tells you everything about his loyalty. He had fourteen months clean this spring and a job he was proud of, and the people who loved him want it known that he tried, hard, and that the disease that killed him was a disease.

He is survived by his parents, Kevin and Michelle Brennan; his sister, Katie; and his grandparents. A celebration of his life will be held Saturday, September 13, at 1:00 p.m. at the Akron Zoo pavilion, where he worked summers. In his memory, the family asks that you reach out to someone who is struggling, today.

If you cannot write it

Answer questions instead. Their name, their dates, who they leave, one thing they loved, one thing they said, one story. Let someone else, or the tribute writer, put it into sentences, and then change the sentences that are not right. Nobody expects you to be a writer this week. They expect you to be their parent, and you are.