Daffodil’s story

Even in the middle of our everyday family life, there is a part of us that will always feel missing.

In September 2022, our world changed in a way we could never have imagined.

We went to our routine 12-week scan full of excitement, as so many parents do. By our dates, I was actually 13 weeks, but we were told baby was measuring a week behind. At the time, it didn’t feel like something to worry about. Everything looked healthy. Everything felt normal.

But we decided to have the blood tests done, just to be sure.

Looking back now, that moment feels like the quiet before everything changed.

It took a week for the results to come back.

A whole week of carrying on as normal, not knowing that everything was about to shift beneath our feet.

When we finally got the call, we were told there was a high chance our baby had Edwards’ syndrome, something we had never even heard of before.

But we had been here before.

With our first Daughter, we were told she had a high chance of Down’s syndrome. We went through the testing, the fear, the waiting and then the overwhelming relief when we were told she was healthy.

So, this time, we held onto that hope.

We told ourselves it would be okay. That we’d been through this before, and everything had turned out fine.

But this time was different.

We were thrown into more tests, more waiting, another agonising week that felt like forever. With delays around the Queen’s funeral, everything seemed to stretch even longer, leaving us stuck in limbo between hope and fear.

I remember not being able to think straight. Not knowing what to do or where to turn.

I called ARC, just hoping someone could guide me. I spoke to such a kind, supportive lady who told me to call the hospital and ask for a detailed scan straight away.

They fitted me in immediately.

I lay there for what felt like forever — around an hour of being scanned in silence, searching for answers, holding onto anything that looked like hope.

And then came the devastating news.

Our baby girl was very unwell.

That same day, everything suddenly became very real.

We were given options.

Because of how far along I was, they told me they could get me in the very next day under general anaesthetic, but it was the last day that the procedure would be possible.

If not, I would have to go through labour and deliver her.

By this point, I was nearly 16 weeks by dates.

I could feel her moving.

Even though she was so small and I was measuring behind, I knew she was there.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, we were expected to make a decision.

I decided to go in the next day for the procedure under general anaesthetic.

I didn’t have time to process any of it.

Everything happened so quickly, and the trauma of that time is something I still carry with me.

We gave her the name Daffodil. Not the name we would have chosen if she had been healthy, but a name that felt right for her, because she was due in March.

When I woke up after the procedure, I was surrounded by screens.

And they were covered in daffodils.

In that moment, through all the pain and confusion, I held onto something I still believe now that it was a sign.

A quiet way of her telling me,

“I’m okay, mummy… and thank you for saving me from pain and suffering.”

Saying goodbye to her was the hardest thing we have ever done.

We held her in our hearts, we loved her deeply, and we let her go.

We came home to Rosie, who needed us to keep going, even when it felt impossible. And somehow, through the heartbreak, we did.

People often say we “lost” our baby, and while that is true, it is not the whole story.

We made a decision in the most devastating circumstances, one that no parent ever imagines they will have to make. And with that comes a grief that is complicated, heavy, and always just beneath the surface.

There are still moments that catch us off guard. Times when we wonder what if. Times when the sadness feels as raw as it did in those early days.

But there is also love. So much love.

Daffodil will always be part of our family. Always be Rosie’s little sister. Always be carried with us in everything we do.

A year later, on the same day we lost her, we planted daffodils in a pot in our garden. Now, every year, they bloom around her due date. A quiet, beautiful reminder of her, and of the love we still carry.

We’re sharing this because not enough people talk about it.

Because behind so many families, there are stories like ours, quiet, hidden, and often misunderstood.