Clutching my husband’s hand, we watched as the sonographer rubbed gel over my bump, and began to scan.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked.
It was early 2014, and I was 12 weeks pregnant.
‘It all looks good to me,’ she said.
‘Listen to the heartbeat.’
Relief flooded over me as I heard the steady rhythm.
I looked at my husband Barrie, then 34, and smiled.
I was more anxious than most pregnant women.
We had been trying for a second baby for eight years.
Since having our beautiful daughter, Madison, then 10, we had struggled to conceive again.
I’d had three miscarriages, and each one was completely soul destroying.
Then finally, one miracle baby decided to stay.
