The day I realised I was pregnant with that baby, days before my period was due, I was crossing the bridge on the train, when I saw two dolphins just below me. They were so close and so majestic, and I just had this very strong feeling that I was pregnant. And then all those weeks later, when I was sitting on a balcony on Rottnest Island, I saw a pod of dolphins in the bay. It was a subdued, cloudy day, but the light was incredible and seemed to match my grief and sense of helplessness at realising that there was no hope for this little life that was leaving my body. It felt special seeing them - a moment of beautiful, painful clarity in the fog of confused emotions. Yesterday, I was going over the bridge, as I now do every day, when I spotted them, far away this time, moving slowly through the flat, opaque water, like black stitches through steel-grey silk, and even though I see them all the time in the river, I felt suddenly overcome with loss and the tears welled up behind my sunglasses and ran down my cheeks.
In the weeks after my miscarriage, I really wasn't sure that we would try again. I'm so pleased we did, and, as my daughter said: "If we'd had the other baby, then we wouldn't have this one." And, of course, she's right.