But so many of you reading this will know my pain. Because you’ve lived it too.
Liberty Rose might not be in our family photos, but she was my first baby.
Me and my husband Alessandro had been aching to meet her as my bump bloomed and we prepared to become a family.
We’d watched Liberty grow on scans, relished hearing the soft thump of her heart beating from inside me.
It had been a textbook pregnancy.
Only, as we’d left our final midwife appointment, at 36 weeks, I’d suddenly felt uneasy.
She’d checked me over, told me everything was OK.
‘But something’s not right,’ I told Alessandro.
So he took me to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where I asked for more tests.
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