Before Kylee Monteiro became a name people saw in the news, she was our daughter, our sister, our aunt, our niece, our granddaughter, our friend. She was the girl who could walk into a room and somehow make everyone smile.
Kylee was born on November 4, 2006. Her father lovingly called her “Fat Baby” when she was little—a nickname she thought was hilarious and continued laughing about for years.
She lost her father in June 2008 and was raised primarily by her mother. Kerri was a woman who loved her family fiercely and gave freely, even when she had nothing. Although they experienced poverty, Kylee never had to question whether her mother loved her.
Then, when Kylee was only 13, she unexpectedly lost her mother four days before Christmas. It was another enormous loss for a girl who had already experienced more grief than most children should ever have to carry.
Her aunt and uncle opened their home to Kylee and her sister, Hailey, welcoming them into their family.
Suddenly, Kylee had to adjust to a different home, different schools, new friendships, and a life she never expected to be living. Yet somehow, through everything she had already endured, Kylee began to blossom.
The quiet, shy little girl became outgoing, social, funny, and incredibly easy to love. She made friends everywhere she went. She loved makeup and music. She loved helping people, talking with her friends and—perhaps most of all—making people laugh.
And that laugh.
Kylee had one of those ridiculously contagious laughs that could fill a room. Sometimes you didn't even know what she was laughing about before you found yourself laughing right alongside her.
That was Kylee. She had a way of bringing light with her wherever she went.
During the summer before her senior year, Kylee participated in a welding program where people began calling her “Smilee Kylee” because “she always had a smile on her face when she came in”.
So the name stuck.
During that time, Kylee discovered something she genuinely loved: welding. It gave her something to work toward and a future she could begin imagining for herself.
In 2025, Kylee graduated from Attleboro High School. She was incredibly proud of what she had accomplished: she graduated, she was chosen as Prom Queen, and she found the man she was going to marry.
Then she learned she was going to have a baby.
Kylee had struggled with mental health throughout her life. During a particularly difficult period, she was admitted into Butler Hospital after experiencing suicidal thoughts and sharing those concerns with family.
While she was there, Kylee learned that she was pregnant.
Her struggles did not disappear but a switch had been made in how she viewed her life.
She spoke with renowned hope, acted as if she found her life’s purpose, and saw a brighter future than she’d ever envisioned.
Kylee shared pictures of the hospital paperwork confirming her pregnancy with her family. She looked at baby clothes and talked about the baby constantly. She even posted photos showing her excitement to the world about the coming of “baby groom”.
“If it’s a girl, I want to name her Eleanor and call her Ella.”
She even created a social-media post using something deeply personal to her—her beloved Elmo blanket. She shaped the blanket into a heart and placed the words “Baby Groom” in the middle. She planned to put welding on hold because she did not want to do anything that could put her baby at risk.
She should have gotten the chance to find out what kind of mother she would become.
She should have been able to feel her baby grow, buy hundreds of little outfits, and experience all the joy a baby could bring to life.
She should have gotten to hold her baby for the first time, smiling through happy tears while the people she loved filled the room–everyone waiting their turn to welcome the baby into the world.
She should have had her welding career. She should have gotten married if that was what she wanted, grown older, made mistakes, changed her mind about things, celebrated birthdays, laughed until she cried, and created thousands of ordinary memories.
Kylee should have had a lifetime.
Instead, Kylee died at only 18 years old. Her unborn baby died with her.
Some of the things we remember most aren't the big milestones. They're the little things.
Kylee had two things she couldn't sleep without: Bob, her beloved Minion stuffed animal, and her Elmo blanket.
That blanket wasn't just a blanket. Kylee's own parents had wrapped her in it when she was a baby. Years later, she still held onto it. When she learned she was pregnant, that little piece of her childhood took on another meaning.
Kylee wanted to wrap her own baby in it someday.
When she was 16, she once made her sister Faith drive all the way home to get Bob and the Elmo blanket because she couldn't sleep without them.
It's the kind of story that makes us smile because it was so completely Kylee.
Neither Bob nor the Elmo blanket was recovered after Kylee's death. Sometimes, it's the smallest things that hurt the most.
Because grief isn't only missing the person you lost. It's missing all the ordinary things that belonged to them—and all the moments that were supposed to come next.
Kylee was more than a missing-person poster. More than a headline. More than a court case. And more than the terrible circumstances surrounding her death.
She was the little girl who laughed for years about her dad calling her “Fat Baby.”
She was a daughter who loved her parents and carried pieces of them with her long after they were gone.
She was a sister, a niece, a granddaughter, and a friend.
She loved makeup and music. She loved helping people and talking with her friends. She loved welding. She loved her cat, Bleb. She loved Bob and her Elmo blanket.
She was Prom Queen.
She was an expectant mother already dreaming about the child she hoped to meet.
And she was Smilee Kylee—the girl whose smile became so much a part of who she was that other people turned it into her name.
Kylee knew darkness. She experienced grief, instability, and struggles that many people never saw.
But darkness was never all that she was.
She could still laugh. She could still love. She could still dream about tomorrow.
Toward the end of her life, she was beginning to imagine a future that included a career, a baby, and a life of her own.
That future was taken from her. Her identity was not.
We cannot give Kylee the lifetime she deserved.
We cannot go backward and change the moments when she needed more help, more understanding, more protection, or simply someone to recognize how much she was struggling.
But we can decide what we do with everything her life taught us.
That is where Smilee Kylee begins.
We want Kylee's name to become connected not only to the tragedy of how her life ended, but to what might still be possible for another woman whose story is still being written.
A woman struggling with her mental health. A woman who is pregnant and frightened about what comes next. A woman who needs somewhere safe to go. A woman trying to recover from trauma, instability, abuse, or addiction. A woman who has made mistakes or experienced setbacks. A woman who simply needs someone to keep showing up.
We cannot become the people Kylee needed soon enough to change her story.
But we can try to become those people for someone else.
That is why this project carries her nickname. That is why it carries her smile.
And that is why we want everyone who encounters her name to understand that there was an entire life behind it.
A funny, complicated, deeply loved young woman. A daughter. A sister. A friend. A welder with a future ahead of her. An expectant mother who never got the chance to hold her baby.
A girl named Kylee.
That is her legacy.
That is Smilee Kylee.
Her memory becomes someone else's hope.