All the worries I’d had about the pain of labour now seemed silly—I would have endured anything if she could have been born alive.

My strongest memory was of the abnormal quiet. Having a baby had always seemed like a rowdy event, maybe like watching the Grand National, an intense, high-octane dash with lots of different voices shouting encouragement. ‘G’wan, good girl! Faster! Harder! Catch your breath, now go again! Home stretch now, keep at it. Eye on the prize, Rachel, eye on the prize!’

But my labour took place in almost total silence.

At one stage, I heard myself choking back sobs. Then I realized it wasn’t me who was crying, it was Luke.

Even after the birth, no one said anything. But when Yara was put in my arms, a sudden calm descended. There she was, our little girl, miniature and perfect. Her skin was cool when it should have been warm, her eyes would never open but, oh, the wonder of her tiny, tiny toenails, her spiky black eyelashes, her mini-prawn fingers.

‘Hello, sweet girl,’ I said. ‘Hello!’

Luke traced his finger along the curve of her cheek. ‘Her skin is so soft.’

‘And look at her hair!’ There was a thick clump of it on the crown of her head, jet black. ‘She got that from you.’

Luke’s chin wobbled.

I inhaled the scent of her head. She smelt just like a baby.

Tears were landing on her from both of us.

‘We’re so sorry you couldn’t stay,’ I told her.

‘But you mustn’t feel bad,’ Luke said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

At some stage Anna had brought in the pregnancy bag which had been sitting in our hall for the last three weeks. Luke and I chose a supersoft sleepsuit, with a rabbit appliqué and paws for feet, to dress Yara in.

As instructed, we took lots of photos, so we’d remember everything about her. Then one of the nurses suggested she take pictures of the three of us together.

‘Let’s try and smile,’ I said to Luke, ‘You’re still her daddy, I’m still her mommy.’

In most of the pictures, Luke and I were like a pair of zombies but there was one where our faces had softened with love, where we looked almost happy; then another, where Luke had his eyes closed and his lips pressed to her downy forehead.

We’d been told to spend as much time with her as we needed but eventually Luke said, ‘Babe, we should go now.’

‘But—’

‘Babe.’ He stared at me with hollow eyes.

I got it. We couldn’t stay there forever: one of us had to be bad cop.

‘Can she come with us?’

He shook his head. The hospital needed to keep her to try to figure out what had gone wrong. She would be returned to us soon and we’d get to have a small funeral.