He/She would be three years old this week.

I was 18, unmarried but newly engaged. All our family would have said we'd ruined our lives and would be disappointed that we had made you. I wished you didn't exist for the first five weeks that I knew you were there. It was the week I decided that I loved and wanted you that you left me, that you left us. Told that there was none of you left and I must have cowardly flushed you during my hours of agony alone with just your father by my side.
Did my body do this to you? With my autoimmune disease? Did I drive you out of my body? After I finally decided I wanted you, you were taken from me. Only four people know you existed, and maybe two speculate you were there and that I purposefully got rid of you, and maybe hate me for it. But if they know and think that, they've kept it secret, or maybe waiting for a moment to use it against me.
During my time on this earth, I'll never know whether or not you are male or female.
I'll never know the curl of your plump baby lips.
I'll never know whether you had my green or your fathers blue eyes.
I'll never know if you'd be blonde and pale and slowly turn darker in skin and hair, like your aunts and uncles and daddy... or if you would come out tan with dark black hair and watch it fade out to brown hair with olive skin like me.
Would you have been bald like my sister, or a little chewbaca like me?
Would you have cried much, or been a peaceful sleeping babe?
I won't know until I meet my maker. But I hope you see you again one day.