I’d already decided that I didn’t want Oscar beside me in theatre, for the birth itself. Even though he had come back into my life and we’d agreed to raise the child together, I felt I needed to do this on my own. I was concerned that his hand stroking mine as the operation took place – leading everyone in the room to wrongly assume he was the father – might be more of a distraction than a comfort to me. I’d made so many decisions on my own up until this point, I wanted to see it through by myself. At least Oscar had made that decision easier for me by making us late on this momentous day.

Yet I felt a deep unease. It was a strange feeling, to be bringing my baby into the world without knowing his paternity. I felt nervous and vulnerable.

When the time came to go into surgery, Oscar kissed me tenderly. ‘You’re going to be brilliant,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be here when you come out.’ I breathed deeply, obeying the instructions to put my hair into the unsexy blue hairnet, pull up the compression socks and change into a scratchy medical gown.

It was time to meet my son.

As it turned out, about halfway through the caesarean, when I was squeezing the female anaesthetist’s hand so hard her eyeballs appeared to bulge, I realized that all I wanted was to have Oscar by my side.

‘Get Oscar! Please get Oscar!’ I yelled. ‘I need Oscar here, right now!’

I knew I could do it on my own – I could do anything on my own – so it wasn’t that, but I wanted Oscar to meet my baby with me. Moments later, there he was, scrubs on, hairnet covering his bald head, which at least gave me some amusement through the surrealism of it all. He took my hand tightly in his, and whispered words of encouragement, telling me how well I was doing and how proud he was. He didn’t let go until my baby was born. And the second thing I heard after hearing my baby cry was Oscar telling me he loved me.

The baby was apparently ‘back to back’ so it took some digging and delving to safely pull him out. And he was a big lad – a bonny nine pounds of baby. When the surgeon freed him from the safety of my womb and he appeared above the surgical sheet which was separating my eyes from the blood bath beyond, I lost it. I burst into tears and proceeded to shake and sob uncontrollably until he had been checked over, given a clean bill of health, and lain across my chest.

His features were scrunched up so tightly they were hard to make out, but he was real, he was breathing, he seemed healthy and he was safe. I was his mummy. I felt so proud of myself. I looked down at his little face, his tiny hands and feet, drinking him in. I wondered whether he had any of his father’s traits, whoever that might be. Looking into his blue eyes felt amazing, magical, life-affirming, as well as life-changing. Even despite the missing piece to the puzzle, it was all the things I dared to hope it would be.