It was three days before Ignatius turned a month old, but his daddy had yet to see him. My husband was working in Nigeria, and was flying home that night to hold his son for the very first time.

I had brought my three-year-old daughter Theresa and little Ignatius to a baby show at the Expo when the unthinkable happened.

I was nursing him, when I realised that his mouth had stopped moving. I tapped him. His movements were getting slower and slower. I tapped him again, and he did not move. I lifted him and saw blood dripping from his nose and mouth, and there were milk curds too.

I didn't know what to do. I screamed. "Help me, Help me!"

A nurse stepped up to give Ignatius CPR, then a medic picked him up and led us to an ambulance to take us to Changi General Hospital, but we never made it out of the carpark.

The carpark barrier refused to lift. The siren was blaring but nothing happened. Minutes went by and nothing happened. I don't know why they did not just bang through the barrier.

We were stuck there for 15 minutes.

Then all too suddenly, I realised that I had lost my son. You know, it's your own baby, you just know.

A second ambulance finally came and Ignatius was passed over the barrier and we scrambled to the hospital. At the A&E they tried their best, but it was no use.

I wasn't allowed to take my baby home, I was the prime suspect in the case of possible abuse or neglect and there was to be an autopsy to rule out that I had killed my son.

As the implications sank in, I actually believed that I was the one who had caused his death.

I felt that I had failed as a wife and mother.

For the full story, grab your copy of the January 2008 issue of Her World