Last night I turned to my husband in tears and said, “Nobody misses her like I miss her.”
And I guess it makes sense that no one misses Aria like I do. I’m the only person in the entire world that was chosen to be her mother. I’m the only one who knows what it was like to carry her in my body. I’m the only one who knows the agony of feeling her kick as the doctors told us she was dying. I was the first one to kiss her sweet face. I was the last one to hold her when we said goodbye.
But that’s the injustice in loss. Even though the rational part of my brain gets it, my heart does not. My mama heart just wants her to be loved all over the world, in the exact same way that I love her. And I think maybe more people would love and miss her like I do if they had more time to get to know her, but tragedy stole that from us. No one was able to bond with her exactly the way Brian and I did while she was here.
Every time she’s not acknowledged it stings, maybe more now than ever. As time moves forward and people move forward, the grief gets more isolating and internal.
But there are those who do love and miss her. The loss of her wasn’t the same for them as it was for Brian and I, but Aria still left her mark on them. And I’m so grateful for them. I only wish we were all given more time.