Joanne Gilliver

A grandmothers story .

A grandmothers story 

Dear Friend, 

Today a mother will give one final push, and her baby will be born into silence.

No cries. No celebration. Just unbearable stillness.

Her partner will be there, holding her hand, stunned and shattered. He’ll watch helplessly as their lifeless child is gently wrapped in a hospital blanket by hands that have done this too many times.

And then someone will ask the question no parent should ever hear:

“Would you like to hold your baby?”

How do you answer that?

The mother  will be weak from labour , soaked in tears, sweat, and pain. Her body will have done everything it was supposed to do. Her heart will not survive untouched.

She will reach out, trembling, and take that still bundle into her arms. A perfect little baby , her child.

And in that moment, she will become a mother to a child she will never get to raise.

There will be no rush of visitors. No warm meals waiting at home. Just a quiet room. And two parents, holding a child who should’ve had a lifetime ahead of them. 

Their other child will waiting be home waiting to meet a sibling that will never play .  They won’t understand the silence that settles over the house. But they will  feel it. They will  feel the tension, the exhaustion, the sadness in the air. They’ll  notice how mummy cries more and smiles less. How Daddy forgets to say goodnight sometimes or loses his patience over little things. They  wonder why everything feels so different.

Someone well-meaning but unprepared will tell them  to be thankful for the child they still have . Or suggest she can just try again.

But what do they not see?

That this child the one she just held is not replaceable. That love for one child never fills the hole left by another.

She  will try to be strong. For her partner  for her living  child , for  everyone else. But inside, she will feel like she’s unraveling. She will wonder why so few people are willing to talk about her baby. Why everyone wants her to move on. Why it feels like the world expects her to forget.

She will not forget.

This was her child.

And there will be no balloons or flowers. No joyful announcement. Only aching arms and sleepless nights. A room prepared, now unopened. Clothes never worn.

They will be sitting in that hospital room, frozen in time, holding the only moments they’ll ever have with their baby. They will want to run, to wake up, to scream. But instead, they will sit still, silent, shattered.

And I will stand on the edge of their grief, aching with my own. Wanting to fix it. Knowing I cannot.

Poem ❤️‍🩹