The midwife took her away to make casts of her hands and feet for my memory box. It was the first time I'd heard that phrase and she had to explain. I would be given a shoebox containing a snippet of Isabel's hair, the cloth she was swaddled in, some photographs and the plaster casts. Like a little coffin; the mementoes of a person who had never been. When the midwife brought the casts back they were like a kindergarten project. Pink plaster for the hands, blue for the feet. That's when it finally started to sink in that there would be no art projects, no drawings on the walls, no choosing of schools, no growing out of uniforms. I hadn't just lost a baby. I had lost a child, a teenager, a woman.