The early morning sun beats down on my garden in west London as I eat my Greek yoghurt and blueberries for breakfast, basking in the glorious heatwave. My golden retriever, Muggles, is sitting under the cherry tree in the shade and my children Lola, ten, and Liberty, eight, are still fast asleep.It feels idyllic – when suddenly my bubble bursts. I’m scrolling the news on my laptop about the escalating Ukraine-Russia war when I feel this overwhelming panic. ‘Oh my God. Is Tallulah OK?’Tallulah is my frozen embryo stored in a fertility clinic in St Petersburg, a Russian city which came under a large-scale overnight drone attack earlier this month – the second in a matter of weeks.As attacks on Russia intensify, there is only one thing on my mind: saving Tallulah, my unborn third child who has been stuck in a freezer 1,800 miles away for nine years.I named her as soon as I found out her sex: Tallulah, or Lulu for short, to match Lola and Liberty’s names. I know that rationally Tallulah doesn’t have feelings yet, but she is very real to my family. So much so that my two daughters know all about her. As I begin what is to become a stressful and complicated search for her, they become increasingly excited at the prospect of having a baby sister.I’m 49 and it’s certainly unconventional to consider having a baby at this stage in my life. But I’ve not exactly followed convention when it comes to having children.I had Lola and Liberty in 2016 and 2018, after their father Alex, the love of my life, died in 2014 midway through our IVF journey. I went on to have our children using his frozen sperm, having moved mountains to be a mum against the odds. Now, those same instincts were kicking in again to fight for Tallulah.I know that if I have her implanted, despite my age, she will likely make it into this world. I’d had my embryos tested with pre-implantation genetic screening (PGS) and, like Lola and Liberty, she was a high-grade and chromosomally-strong embryo, meaning an excellent chance of a pregnancy. I’m scrolling the news on my laptop about the escalating Ukraine-Russia war when I feel this overwhelming panic. ‘Oh my God. Is Tallulah OK?’ writes Charlotte CrippsIt is only recently on hearing news that she was in danger that a switch has flicked in my mind: I want to have her and give my daughters the baby sister that we all long for. But how?My mind is whirling. Is Tallulah still there? If so, how can I get her home? There has been no contact from the clinic in years and I have lost all tabs on her.Life took over as a busy, working single mum also caring for an elderly dad – and I lost track of storage payments to the clinic.For five years, I had been paying for storage for Alex’s sperm and Tallulah, each costing just under £100 a year. Then, around 2020, I contacted the clinic to ask them to dispose of Alex’s sperm. Knowing I was blessed with two healthy children with another on ice, there was never going to be a need to use it.It wasn’t an easy decision but I consulted his mother and some friends who all agreed it was for the best.Then came the Covid pandemic followed by the Russia-Ukraine war. With international sanctions, it would have been hard to send money to the clinic to pay for the embryo storage. Besides, I couldn’t get hold of them when I emailed a few times for clarification. So, happy with my two little girls, I swept it all under the carpet . . . until now.What makes it even more upsetting is that Liberty was on ice in the exact same Russian clinic for two years, until I went for my embryo transfer in 2018, aged 41, just over a year after Lola was born in London (she had been conceived at an IVF clinic in Alicante in Spain.)I remember sitting in the doctor’s St Petersburg office and it was a toss-up between transferring Liberty or Tallulah because both were high-grade embryos.How different would things be now if I’d had Tallulah? I can’t begin to imagine life without my little Liberty. That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about Tallulah constantly, and now the idea of her in a freezer, as if she’s nothing more than a frozen Birds Eye fish finger while bombs drop around her, is too much to bear. Charlotte's children via IVF with her late husband, Lola, ten, and Liberty, eight, with their golden retriever MugglesFrantically, I search for answers. The clinic looks like it’s still operating but nobody gets back to me when I email. Meanwhile, I dream of my unborn third daughter every night, sometimes waking in a terrified state from nightmares that she is lost for good.It’s not like I can visit St Petersburg to find out how she is doing and throw in a bit of sightseeing to the Winter Palace before popping into the clinic, since the British government warns against all travel to Russia.With no direct flights available from the UK, I make some inquiries with international courier companies. There’s a chance I could get a courier to collect the embryo, get a taxi from St Petersburg to Estonia or Finland with Tallulah in a portable freezer – a drive of around four hours – and then get a flight onwards to London. But it’s all a costly minefield, not to mention the legal problems.All the international courier companies I speak to won’t touch Russia with a bargepole, with one telling me that before the war it would have cost between £5,000 to £6,000 for the trip, but now it’s unsafe for their couriers.Trying to rescue Tallulah reminds me of how the embryos ended up in Russia in the first place and it’s hugely triggering. When Alex died in 2014, having tragically taken his life after struggling with addiction and depression on and off for years, we had done six failed IVF attempts, costing around £10,000 per cycle.I found him dead in our bedroom after I returned home from work as a journalist. Aged 40, life slammed to a halt, consumed by the most unimaginable pain. Not only had I lost the love of my life – but also quite possibly the chance to become a mother. Charlotte's partner Alex with Muggles as a puppy. 'Not only had I lost the love of my life – but also quite possibly the chance to become a mother', she writesIn the depths of grief, I found myself juggling calls to the funeral parlour and the IVF clinic to find out the legalities of having a dead man’s child. I found out he had ticked the box that stated that if anything happened to him, his sperm belonged to me, which came as a complete surprise.I was desperate to be a mum and knew Alex had longed to be a father and so I decided to continue without him, doing two more unsuccessful rounds of IVF in London. Then, having spent the last of the equity that I was allowed to take out of my flat – about £80,000 – on IVF cycles, a friend stepped in financially to help me with my last-ditch attempt to have a baby.At the time, IVF was far cheaper in Europe – almost a third of the price. So I shipped my eggs and Alex’s banked sperm to an IVF clinic in Spain to try again. After two more rounds of IVF in Alicante, Lola was conceived in 2015. When the pregnancy test came up positive, I sat in shock on the edge of my bed and then cried with joy and also sadness that Alex couldn’t share the moment.The cycle resulted in two further embryos for potential use at a later date, as well as a supply of Alex’s sperm.Then, out of the blue, the Alicante clinic called me to say they had just discovered that by law they had to dispose of a person’s sperm, and any embryos created using it, a year after their death. I had a week to get the embryos and Alex’s sperm out of Spain.I couldn’t believe it. I called around clinics all over Europe and the US asking them if they would take them. I found the St Petersburg clinic after a few days – they were efficient and willing to help me.The clock was ticking, and by the time Serge, the courier, had arrived from Russia at the Alicante clinic we were still waiting for the rubber stamp on one document. After it was finally approved, he made a mad dash to the airport with my two leftover embryos – Liberty and Tallulah – and all Alex’s sperm. Would he make it through customs?I was in the cinema watching Macbeth with a friend when I got the message from Serge: ‘Made it!’ I came out in a hot sweat and, as I left my seat, I fainted in front of the cinema screen and had to be carried out. I got checked out in A&E and a foetal heart monitor reassured me that all was well with my pregnancy.I really wanted Lola to have a sibling so they would always have each other. Then, when I rang the clinic and found out that both remaining embryos were female, it was a deal breaker: I knew they could share the bunk beds in my second bedroom. Despite some concern from family, I decided to go ahead.When Lola was one, I flew with her and my best friend to St Petersburg for an embryo transfer after I had taken hormone drugs in the UK to prepare my body for pregnancy.It was a strange clinic; very high-tech in the lab environments where the embryo transfer took place, but like something from another era in other places.In one doctor’s room, there was just a metal table, chair, hospital bed and a wooden stadiometer for measuring height. It felt miles away from my upmarket IVF clinic in Chelsea or Alicante with their bustling waiting rooms and posh food menus.As I flew back to the UK with Liberty, at this point only an embryo I hoped was attaching to my uterus, I left poor Tallulah in the freezer. I didn’t really think much about it at the time, as then she was more like back-up than a third child.The transfer was successful. Liberty was born in 2018 and I was overwhelmed with happiness that my family was complete. The transfer was successful. Liberty was born in 2018 and I was overwhelmed with happiness that my family was completeNow things feel rather different. Lola and Liberty keep asking me for updates at school pick-up. ‘Mum, is Tallulah OK? Is she coming home?’ It sounds so silly, I know. I look at them and my heart sinks: what if she has vanished?Then I find a contact in my phone of a woman who had been the UK representative for the clinic. I shakily dial the number.‘Is the clinic still standing?’ I ask her as she picks up her phone. ‘I can’t get hold of anybody there.’But she tells me she has not been in touch with the clinic for more than seven years – and has no idea whether they are operating or not. She doesn’t even have a contact there to give me but mentions the name of the Russian doctor who I had been under who has opened a new clinic.A breakthrough! I call the clinic and, to my great relief, someone in their international department speaks English fluently. They promise to look into things.I then get an email from their clinic’s patient co-ordinator – who gives me the only email she has for the embryology department at the St Petersburg clinic. I email instantly, fully expecting to be ignored, but two days later there is a reply.My heart racing, I open the email and stare in disbelief at what I read. It says the storage of my embryo was terminated on April 19, 2023.I can’t believe it. I didn’t get any warning letters. I’m not even 100 per cent sure I know what it means – storage terminated? I email back to ask the embryologist, if I send late storage fees, can I retrieve her? Or does it mean she has been destroyed? Deep down, I already know that she has gone but I can’t accept it.Even if you store furniture in a self-storage unit in London, they get in touch to warn you before getting rid of it – so why not with something as meaningful as an embryo? They tell me they did try to contact me once in 2021 but were ‘forced’ to dispose of her.I have no recollection of this – they had found it very easy to contact me when I was a patient, so why not now? I’ve not changed my phone number, email or address.So there it is. Tallulah is gone and nothing will bring her back – and there is no point in escalating it with the clinic, who are covered by a contract: if you don’t pay for embryo storage, they bin them.I am in shock and still struggling to process the news. My dream of Tallulah is dashed – and I still haven’t found a way to break the news to my children, who will feel they have lost the sister they never had. I feel guilty and also overwhelmed with feelings of delayed grief. She was, after all, half me and half Alex. Who would she have looked like? What would her personality have been?I can’t even be sure that she hasn’t been donated to another couple for their IVF cycle. It absolutely shouldn’t happen without my permission – but who knows?Thank goodness I have Lola and Liberty. That night after the bad news, I grab them in my arms and hug them tight.Once they are asleep, I write Tallulah a love letter as tears stream down my face. I start it: ‘My darling Tallulah, I know you could have been but you never were . . . and I love you.’It continues: ‘I am so sorry I won’t ever meet you. I failed you as your mum. You would have had a wonderful life with us. Lola and Liberty will never forgive me for not paying your storage charges. But I never thought in a million years they’d throw you away without making sure they got in touch with me first.‘I realised too late that I longed for you to be here with us. It breaks my heart and I pray you find your way to us if you are alive. More than anything, I just want you here. Please understand. Love Mum.’The next hardest and painful thing to do will be breaking the news to my daughters that Tallulah, their longed for, much-loved baby sister will never be coming home.