A pregnancy ultrasound scan is shown. (Getty Images)

My daughter Freya Grace was perfect. Five pounds, fourteen ounces, twenty inches long. Her eyelashes, her tiny fingers and toes, the peach fuzz on her back, I’ve memorized every detail. We went into the hospital at 39 weeks, bags packed, ready to bring home our healthy baby girl.

Instead, we left with empty arms and a broken future. When the nurse couldn’t find her heartbeat, I was naïve enough to show her where Freya’s feet were, where her little tushy always pressed against my belly. I thought surely they just needed a better machine.

In that hospital room, as reality set in, the doctors and nurses also were shocked. I could see the heartbreak on their faces. They had followed the guidelines they were given, caring for us with kindn

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