I’ve known her since she was a little girl.

Over the years, our conversations changed with her life. We talked about acne before school dances. Her first boyfriend. Birth control before university. One afternoon she brought a young man to an appointment, introducing him with a shy confidence. A few years later, he became her husband.

Last October she came in smiling, barely able to contain herself. The pregnancy test was positive. We ordered the usual blood work, arranged the ultrasounds, and talked about vitamins, nausea, and due dates. Everything unfolded as expected. She and her husband attended prenatal classes at the community centre. She finished work as a dental assistant a month before her due date. Although I no longer practise obstetrics, she continued dropping into my office every few weeks. She said my reassurance helped.

Last week the labour and delivery report appeared in my inbox.

Stillbirth.

On Tuesday, they came to see me together.

I walked into the room carrying my closed laptop. I set it on the desk, my stethoscope and glasses resting on top, then pulled my stool beside them. They were holding hands.

We exchanged our hellos.

After a long silence, I said, "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"How are you doing?"

She shrugged. Her eyes were swollen. They both looked as though they had not slept for days.

"Was it a boy or a girl?"

His lips tightened.

She drew a shaky breath.

"It was a girl."

Her eyes filled.

"What's her name?"

"Emma."

She spoke the name once, then wept. He closed his eyes, tears tracing down his cheeks.

There are moments in medicine when knowledge has nothing left to offer.

No laboratory result changes anything. No prescription eases the wound. There is only the privilege of bearing witness to a grief so large that language itself seems too small to contain it.

For all the years physicians spend learning how to save lives, almost no one teaches us how to sit beside parents whose child could not be saved.