In this heartfelt letter to his son Reuben, who was stillborn at 26 weeks, Amo shares his memories, reflections and how his son has changed him. 

Dear Reuben,

I still talk to you sometimes. Not out loud, not always, but in quiet moments, when the house settles at night, or when I hear the robin’s song outside in the garden. He still turns up, you know. Always when I need him most. I like to think you send him.

It’s been a long time since I held you, but there isn’t a day that passes when I don’t think of you. You’re part of everything now.

I still remember the first time I heard your heartbeat through the Doppler. That fast, galloping rhythm that filled the room. It made everything feel real. Each night I’d listen again, just to make sure. I’d tell you about your mum, about the world, about the plans we were making. I’d make promises I never got the chance to keep.

You were so small when I finally saw you. Tiny hands, tiny fingers, a head full of dark hair. You were perfect. Wrapped in that hospital blanket, you looked peaceful, like you were just resting. I was proud of you. Still am.

I still wonder what you’d have been like. What kind of boy you’d have grown into, what kind of man you'd be. Whether you'd have been sporty, artistic, whether you’d have loved music like your mum and I do. Sometimes I still find myself picturing you at different ages, five, ten, twenty, and it hits me that I’ll never really know. But that doesn’t stop me from imagining.

Age-wise, you’d have been right in the middle of your two cousins, who are three years older than you, and two years younger. They’re amazing young men, and I know the three of you would have been the best of friends. For sure. And I like to think I see you in them, and that gives me comfort.

You changed me, Reuben. You made me see life differently. You softened parts of me I didn’t know were hard. You taught me patience and humility. You showed me what it means to love without expectation, to give everything even when you get nothing back.

Your mum and I don’t speak anymore. Life moved as it does, in directions we couldn’t have predicted. But what we shared with you binds us still. An invisible connection that will never fade. You are the thread that runs through it all.

And then there’s your robin. He still visits. Sometimes he lands on the fence, sometimes on the tree outside the kitchen window. Sometimes I just hear him before I see him. When he sings, it feels like you’re saying, "I’m still here, Dad".

And I always answer, I know, son. I know.

If love could have kept you here, you’d have lived forever. But I’ve learned that love doesn’t leave just because life does. It stays, changes form, finds new ways to speak.

You are with me in every quiet moment. Every time the sun breaks through a grey sky. Every time a robin sings.

Until I see you again, my boy, fly free.

Love always,

Dad xx