It seems the strains of Maroon 5 will forever remind me of those troubled days in March. Of sitting at the window, watching the rolling clouds stretch towards the sea. Of dashing through spring showers, too distracted to enjoy it like I used to, at sixteen. Of mornings; and really, whole days, spent in bed drifting in and out of sleep, shuttling between hopeful wishes for the future and the gloomy belief that Nothing Good Will Happen.

How I would have liked to watch Luka grow up. To see him open his eyes for the very first time. To hear his first words. There's so much I would have taught him. There was so much ahead of him.

We rationalise, we try to console ourselves: It was the right thing to do, we couldn't provide for him, we're not ready, we'd be lousy at parenting, he won't be healthy, we haven't been taking care of him. But that is so far from the truth. The truth is, it was the convenient thing to do. And we were selfish.

I wonder if he felt any pain? I wonder if he knew what was coming? I wonder, if for one second, he thought we didn't love him. I wonder if he'd really bid me farewell, or if it was just my hopeful imagination. His hands, I wonder if they meant anything.

Did he struggle to hold on past the twentieth because he was aware of the significance? Did he hang on tight, waiting for his father to arrive? Did he hear us cry?

Mostly, I wonder if I'd put my foot down that night, if I had refused to continue with the pills, would he have been all right?

The little one, now printed on so many cigarette packs across the nation - I wonder whose baby he was.

Iza is 26. Her daughter is 9.

Why couldn't I?