MARTIN Sommerville, 41, is an artist and lives in Nottingham with his partner Carly, 37, also an artist, and their son Sol, three.

Here, the father opens up about the heartbreak of losing his first son Zephyr during labour and opening a centre for parents who've lost children too.

Cradling my son Sol moments after his birth, I wept. To an onlooker I could have been any new dad overwhelmed with joy. But mixed with my tears of pride was a sadness that my little boy would never know his big brother.

When people ask how many children I have, I say two: Sol, three, and Zephyr, who was stillborn in December 2013. I’m a ‘rainbow dad’, but it’s a label no father wants, because to experience the incredible joy a rainbow baby brings, you must first lose a child.

Carly and I met 14 years ago when we were students. For a long time we were happy just the two of us, but then we both felt a longing for a child. It didn’t take long to conceive Zephyr, and when we found out in early 2013 that Carly was pregnant we were ecstatic.

This was our first baby and the pregnancy was very straightforward. Both of us were so excited as we bought little sleepsuits, deciding not to find out the sex until the birth. Then, on December 7, 2013, Carly went into labour.

We’d planned a home water birth, but as I rushed around inflating the birthing pool, Carly realised she couldn’t feel the baby moving. The community midwife hadn’t arrived at that point as Carly was still in the early stages of labour, so I drove us to hospital, sick with dread.

When the midwife placed the Doppler on Carly’s bump, all we could hear was her heartbeat, racing with panic. Zephyr’s was silent. I remember hearing Carly screaming when we were told our baby had died. I felt like I was falling through the air then smashing into a million pieces.

All the dreams we had were over before they’d begun. We’d never get to know this little person.

Carly decided to stick to her plan of a drug-free water birth. I gathered every scrap of strength I had, pushing away my despair to help her deliver our baby.

I held her, reassured her when she wanted to give up and cried with her through each contraction. When Zephyr was born eight hours later, I was in the pool to cut the umbilical cord. It was a beautiful moment and I felt that fierce surge of love I’d heard other dads talk about.

Being on a maternity ward, with babies crying and excited parents in the corridor, was very difficult.

But we spent several hours with Zephyr, taking photos and inviting our families to meet him.

Kissing him goodbye was devastating. Leaving hospital, I should have been the proud dad carrying the car seat. Instead I’d had to ask friends to go to our home to put away the baby clothes we had waiting for him.

In the weeks after Zephyr’s death, we stayed with family because we couldn’t bear to be in our house and I threw myself into arranging his funeral. We had a post-mortem, but there was nothing they could tell us. Why he’d died was a mystery.

Carly was suffering from depression and was exhausted, so I became her buffer. I acted like the stereotypical strong male, but privately I cried, raged and struggled with my new identity: a father without a child.

It took over a year before we felt strong enough to try for another baby. Stillbirth can destroy relationships, but thankfully we only grew closer. Throughout her pregnancy with Sol, Carly was incredibly anxious, but I felt strangely calm, sure everything would be OK this time.

After Carly suffered a bleed during labour, Sol was born by emergency Caesarean on August 23, 2015, weighing 8lb. Hearing him cry for the first time, I felt like I could finally exhale after months of holding my breath.

A rainbow baby doesn’t replace the child you lost, and we have photos of Zephyr in the house and a corner where Sol leaves him toys. Last year, we opened Zephyr’s, a centre at Nottingham City Hospital for parents who’ve lost a baby or child.

We raised £20,000 in partnership with Nottingham Hospitals Charity through sponsored walks and comedy nights to create a space where parents can grieve, meet doctors or have bereavement counselling away from the maternity unit.

I hope dads will also use it as a space where they can shake off that pressure to be strong, and realise that grieving is part of healing. Sol has brought so much happiness into our lives, but we’ll never forget Zephyr.