Every June 13th, I think about the loss of my first pregnancy. I get sad at times, thinking that if I didn't miscarry at 16 weeks, I would have a four year old girl this year. A little girl that might be in dancing or playing sports or an instrument. And I see other people's kids, people who were pregnant the same time as me, taking their sons or daughters to birthday parties, or fairs or just to the park. I have my son now, who I wouldn't trade for anything, but my loss still hits me at times. But I know that my little girl who would have been named, Angelina Francesca, is up in heaven with my great Aunt Frances taking care of her. And since Fran never had any of her own children, Angelina became her child. And one day, we will all meet again. Until that day my love.