Shoving the laptop away, I grabbed one of Bella’s fairy pillows, buried my face in it and screamed. Had Marty actually done it? My mind wouldn’t let me form the words. Were Nurse Natalie and the media and the websites right all along? Dr Death. I had stood by him, defended him, grieved with him. The coldness engulfed my whole body; my arms and legs began to shake.

The night Archie died was the first time I’d been out since his birth. Phoebe was in Sydney and had insisted that I needed a break. She’d tried to take me out before but I’d been too tired from the constant morning sickness and looking after Archie. Most evenings, I was asleep by eight o’clock.

That Tuesday, Phoebe whisked us off to an early session at Roseville cinema. I had no memory of what we watched, but for that hour and a half I lost myself in the story on the screen, forgetting Archie’s difficult physiotherapy session with Yvette that day, my worries about the new baby and how on earth I would cope with Archie and a newborn. Setting aside the fear and guilt. What if the new baby is like Archie? For a few hours, I managed to relax.

Afterwards, at home, I’d felt almost buoyant from having achieved a moment of normality. Maybe I could cope after all.

Marty had hugged me and brought me a cup of ginger tea in bed.

‘Everything will be better from now on,’ he told me.

I’d kissed him, grateful, then—exhausted from the evening out—I fell asleep without checking on Archie or brushing my teeth. At 2 am, I woke suddenly, desperate for a wee. I climbed out of bed, went to the loo, then looked in on my beautiful boy. Archie wasn’t propped up the right way, I saw. And then, when I touched him, he was cold—so cold. I fussed around with his BabyGro sleeping bag. It should have been keeping him warm. I put my hand on his little chest. And then I’d started to scream.

I’d always thought that Archie’s birth—and death—were my fault. I’d been so ill on that trip to Indonesia. My body had given birth to a sick child. And then I’d gone out that evening. Hadn’t checked on him when I’d got home. For the last four years, I had woken each morning at two and stood in the dark, listening to my daughter’s steady breaths.