On 4 September last year, our son, Rayan, was stillborn. My wife, Sara had been 38 weeks pregnant, and with a couple of weeks to go we had just finished buying all the things we would need for our first child: the clothes, the cot, the nappy disposal system.
It was a Sunday morning, and it started in the way we thought it would: contraction-like pain, waters breaking with a sitcom gush (this was a bad sign, we found out later). But instead of coming in waves, the pain didn’t stop. There was blood, a dash to the hospital. No heartbeat.
