At the thirty-seven-week mark, I was winding down at work; two more weeks before I finished up. Five months’ maternity leave was the most I was entitled to—three months of which would be unpaid—but we’d saved money for it.

Hope House was a bit put out about the length of time I’d be away, but said they’d take me back.

When I woke on the Thursday morning of that week, something felt…off. I realized I hadn’t woken once since 2 a.m., and at this stage of my pregnancy Yara usually woke me with her antics several times a night. There had been no activity for hours.

‘Wake up, little girl.’ I stroked my stomach. ‘Come on, play with me.’

There was no response. I stared and stared, praying for a knee or an elbow to jut out at me, but nothing.

‘Luke!’

He emerged from the bathroom, half his face covered in shaving foam. ‘What’s up?’

‘She isn’t moving, she didn’t wake me during the night. Maybe I’m overreacting, but—’

He put his hand on my bump. In stillness, we looked at each other, both of us terrified, both of us searching for reassurance that the other couldn’t give.

‘Let’s go!’ Luke strode to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and roughly wiping away the shaving foam. ‘We’ll get a cab on the street.’

On the way to the hospital, Luke held my hand tight, while I began to bargain with God. It had been a long time since I believed in a higher power who listened carefully to my specific requests, then promptly actioned them, as if it were a genie which had escaped from a bottle. I knew—in my bones, my brain, my soul—that in any situation, the best outcome to hope for was acceptance. Trying to persuade God to pull off something particular never worked. This, though, was different: it mattered too much. Make her be okay, I pleaded. Just this once, I’ll never ask for anything ever again, but give me—us—this.

Isolated by our fear, we watched armies of other people on their way to work and envied them. I wanted to be anyone but me.

Now and then Luke and I muttered hopeful little phrases at each other, flip-flopping between disbelief and terror. Silently, I pleaded with Yara, ‘Give me a kick! Make your poor mommy feel stupid for panicking.’

First it was a relief, then it very much wasn’t, that the hospital took us seriously. Within a short time I was hooked up to a monitor and, oh, the surge of joy when the pitter-patter skip of a heartbeat sounded in the room!

‘That’s your heartbeat,’ the technician said. ‘Just waiting for your daughter’s.’

She pressed buttons then flicked a switch on and off but there was no new sound.

‘Try a different machine.’ Luke’s voice was husky with fear.