For Sarah, the answer is tucked away in a small, tissue-lined box at the back of her closet. It doesn’t hold diamonds or gold, but something infinitely more valuable: a tiny, perfectly knitted pair of white baby shoes. In the bleak, fluorescent-lit quiet of a hospital ante-room, Sarah felt the world had shrunk to the size of her own trembling hands. At 30 weeks pregnant, a routine scan had revealed a worrying complication. She was admitted for monitoring, the word “preterm labour” hanging in the air like a threat. Her husband, David, was frantically arranging care for their toddler at home, leaving Sarah alone with her fears. She had packed a bag, but in her panic, she’d forgotten the one thing that brought her comfort: the soft, yellow blanket she had knitted for the new baby. Sitting in a stiff armchair, she felt a profound loneliness. The other mothers on the ward had bulging baby bags and cheerful visitors. She had nothing but the sterile hospital gown and the relentless beep of a ...