On July 4th, 2025, Texas was celebrating Independence Day.

But in Hill Country, the sky broke open.

Hours of relentless rain turned streets into rivers, ripping through bridges, swallowing cars, tearing families apart.

My husband, Richard, was driving home that night.

Months before the floods, Richard had been working as a safety supervisor for a major construction and infrastructure company.

His job was to inspect sites and flag hazards.

One of those hazards was a bridge that thousands of people crossed every day — including us.

He and other engineers had reported that the bridge's support structure was deteriorating badly.

Repairs were URGENT.

But the executives saw the repair budget as "too high" and quietly delayed the work to save money.

Richard wouldn't stay silent.

He spoke up — and just weeks later, he was reassigned to a remote site hours away from home.

On the night of the flood, the rivers surged. That same neglected bridge collapsed into the water below.

It was the very bridge Richard had warned them about.

He was on it when it went down.

The water was so strong, rescuers couldn't even reach some of the vehicles.

Richard drowned that night, along with several others.

And the man ultimately responsible? He didn't just keep his job. He was promoted. Got a bonus.

Bought himself a brand-new truck.

I thought losing him would be the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

I was wrong.

A few months after the flood, Grace started tripping.

She'd be walking across the living room and suddenly just fall.

At first, I thought it was just grief, maybe distraction.

But then it got worse. She couldn't climb the steps to her bed without help.

I took her to the doctor.

Then to a specialist.

Then to a children's hospital in Houston.

After countless tests, I got the news no mother ever wants to hear:

"Your daughter has Guillain-Barré Syndrome. And it's the most severe, rarest form we've seen."

The doctors explained it in simple words so I could understand:

Imagine the nerves in your body are like electrical wires. They're wrapped in insulation to keep signals moving from your brain to your muscles.

In Grace's case, her immune system is attacking that insulation.

The "wires" are being stripped bare, so the signals can't get through.

Without urgent treatment, those signals stop.

First in her legs. Then her arms. Then the muscles that help her breathe.

For most patients, the standard IVIg treatment works.

But not for Grace.

Her form of the disease is so rare it's the only case like it in the U.S. right now.

We tried the IVIg.

Five long days in the hospital, hooked to machines.

It didn't work.

The only remaining option is plasmapheresis — a procedure that removes the harmful antibodies from her blood.

The hospital that can do it is in Houston.

She needs six sessions of therapeutic plasmapheresis.

Each one normally costs $12,300 in the United States — but thanks to a special negotiated rate and partial support from the hospital, we were able to bring it down to $7,400 per session.

That's $44,400 total instead of over $73,800.

We've already raised about $36,223. That means only $8,177 stands between her and the chance to walk again.

I've sold everything I could: the car, the furniture, even Richard's old tools.

The only thing I haven't sold is my faith.

Every day, she asks me:

"Mommy, if we can't get the money… will I stop walking?"

How do you answer that?