Oh Aria, your Daddy was so excited to meet you. When we lost Thea, he was so worried that I wasn't going to make it through surgery, and we found out about you so soon after that he'd barely stopped to grieve. When we saw you on our first ultrasound, you were so tiny. I knew right then something wasn't right. That's my job, I'm your momma. I think your Dad didn't realize how serious our doctor's concerns were, until we got home and I cried for days. I hear so many people argue about whether or not they should be allowed to stop the tiny little hearts of babies like you. All I wanted was to see yours beat. Nine days later, at our next ultrasound, you hadn't moved. You hadn't grown. I knew before I saw you that you were gone. I'm so sorry for how detached I was that day. We had just lost Thea, and my grief was still fresh. Your Dad cried on the way home from that appointment. His grief matched mine, for the first time. I wasn't ready to be pregnant again, but I wasn't ready to lose you, either. My grief for you and your sister nearly consumed me. My faith in Jesus was so new, just a spark, and I wished nothing more than to go be with Him, and with you. In the midst of my deepest grief, God gave me a dream. He showed me you, and Thea. Honey, you are so beautiful. You and your sister look like siblings, but Thea looks more like me. You look like your Daddy, and your little sister. He's going to be happy to see that when we get to you. I love you my sweet song.