A letter to my baby on the one-year anniversary of her death, and to her older sibling, the children we lost.

I'm so sorry I never knew you. Didn't know your face, your hands and feet, your hair, your eyes. I don't know if you looked more like your daddy or like me. I lost you before you were able to be anything. You didn't live a day on this earth, but you live every day in my heart. I'm so glad I got to see you a few times, dancing around on that computer screen. Your daddy and I would come home from the hospital laughing about our dancing baby, wondering if you were a boy or a girl. We found out 6 months after you died that you were a little girl. I wish you could have been born, so you could have been a playmate to your older cousin. I just wish you could have been born. As long as I am on this earth, I'll never understand why you were taken from us. I know I'll finally hold you in Heaven one day, and some days I know I wish I could be there with you and your older sibling right now. I imagine that Jesus is rocking two cribs in Heaven, keeping you content until your daddy and I get there. But I just miss you so much and it is still so painful. You must know that I love you, I love you as if I had held you and heard your laughter, and saw you take your first steps, and held your hand on the way to your first day of school, and fretted over your first date, and all the things that I missed with you. I love you like I had a whole life with you, even though I have to face a whole life without you.