He leaves the room quietly.

‘So?’ Dad asks. ‘You thought this might be your last try anyway, didn’t you?’

Last, last, last.

Tears start trickling down my face, because this isn’t how today was meant to go.

‘Oh, my poor Gem.’ Dad embraces me. ‘It’s not fair, is it? None of this is fair. But you’re never on your own.’

Despite his arms around me, I do feel alone, in this chilly clinic, with my body plump and primed for the baby I want so much, with a person I will never see again.

The door opens again and the doctor shifts from foot to foot. ‘So what would you like to do?’

I close my eyes and try to summon Andrew’s hope and his pragmatism. An image comes to me: not of him sick, but of us when we first moved in together. He had thrown out loads of his things to make space for me, but he wanted to explain his system. There was a place for everything, as painstakingly worked out as any jigsaw puzzle, and everything had to be back in its proper home before bed. I teased him about it and he laughed. But he never relaxed his standards, not even when medical supplies threatened to turn our living room into a hospital storeroom.

I’m a fusspot, but I can’t sleep unless I know that in the morning everything is ready to begin again. Fresh starts are the best.

Fresh start.

‘I’m going to say yes.’

Because of what the doctor calls the ‘mishap’ with the first thawing, we have to wait for longer than usual and soon the clinic gets busy. Dad and I go out for a walk, speculating on the other couples and which stage of their ‘fertility journey’ they might be at, without acknowledging that mine could be about to hit the buffers.

I could call Isabel. I texted her last night to tell her I was going ahead, and she texted back, wishing me luck. But knowing this is my final embryo – my final chance – changes everything.

Before I can work out how to break the news, an alarm sounds on my phone, making me jump. Without a word, Dad and I turn back towards the clinic.

‘What if this one hasn’t survived thawing, either?’ I say to him.

‘You’ll be sad and angry. But you’ll survive, because you’re my Little Gem, and Andrew’s, and you’re made of strong stuff.’

But when we walk into the consultation room, the baby-faced doctor is smiling.

I go in alone. Dad might have delivered me, but he’s got no business seeing this.

They check my name and date of birth, before getting me into position. ‘OK now, Gemma, let me explain what’s going to happen.’

It’s my third transfer, so I know the ropes. Except this time I sense even more care and precision as they insert the catheter and wait for the flash of white on the ultrasound. When it happens, I close my eyes and wish and wish and wish.