For Jack Robert Burree, stillborn on 21 February 1999

Dear Jack
It has taken me seven years to write this letter to you as I could not put into words the emptiness I felt. The day me and your daddy found out that I was going to be having you was one of the happiest; you were our future. I was quite poorly with morning sickness while I was carrying you, but your daddy was wonderful helping me along the way - although he did get fed up with mince and mashed potato but not the strawberry ice cream which was all I craved. 

As you grew inside me and you jumped and wriggled, we had our scans. You were perfect - everything babies should be - and we showed your picture to hundreds of people. When you got to 29 weeks and five days, I had an appointment with the midwife for a normal check-up, but that day I didn't feel sick. She did all the tests and then tried to hear you, but she couldn't. She tried to reassure me, but deep down I knew something was wrong.

I was taken to the hospital and I phoned your grandma and granddad, as your daddy was away on a course for his new job and they rushed to the hospital picking up a speeding ticket on the way. By the time they got there, a doctor had already told me you had died inside me and I felt alone and desolate. 

We phoned your daddy and he came rushing back to take us home for our last night together. It was strange: I couldn't cry then, as I knew I had to be strong for your entrance into this world and our arms. We went back to the hospital the next day and they started to induce me. Your daddy was with me every step of the way holding me and supporting me all the time even in the darkest times. You finally made your entrance into this world at 1.45pm on Sunday 21 February 1999, the happiest and saddest day I can remember. 

You were perfect - ten fingers, ten toes. I kept wanting you to cry even though I knew you wouldn't, but as I held you I noticed a blood red tear run down your face. It was like you were crying too.

We dressed you and placed you in a Moses basket with a Winnie the Pooh teddy we had brought for you. We had you blessed, then the staff took photos and stuff for us. Then we had to go, left only with our memories, photos and keepsakes. The emptiness I felt was suffocating, the loss huge, everything seemed to have vanished down a black hole.

Your final journey took place a couple of weeks later. Your daddy carried you into the church and then to your grave and we laid you to rest. I so badly wanted the ground to open up so I could go with you, but I knew I couldn't;     I had to be strong for the future. Your presence and death gave us the strength to carry on to make your life mean something, so that it wasn't a waste.

You now have a brother and sister: Connor was born on 18 February 2000 and your sister Chelsea was born on 15 January 2004. Your death made us stronger and hopefully better people than we were before. Over time, the pain has eased and we try to help other mummies and daddies who are suffering the pain of losing a special life.

Each night we look up to the sky and say the rhyme Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and think of you looking over and after us, giving us the strength to move on.

We will never forget you and hold you close in our hearts.

All our love now and forever

Mummy and daddy

Days I wished we shared were never there
But in my heart, you will always be there
You may be gone, but you will never be forgotten