Spencer Matthews Wants a Fifth Baby With Vogue Williams After Her Miscarriage Heartbreak

Speaking to The Sun on 28 May 2026, Spencer Matthews confirmed he and Vogue Williams remain open to a fifth child despite the recent loss. The couple, married since June 2018 at his family's Glen Affric estate, already share three children: Theodore (born September 2018), Gigi (July 2020) and Otto (April 2022). The fourth pregnancy, announced 17 April 2026, did not progress.

What Spencer said was the version men of his generation have been trained to say. Hopeful. Forward-facing. Protective. "We'd love more," the kind of line that closes a tabloid paragraph cleanly. What he didn't say — what almost no public-facing partner ever says — is what it felt like to watch the woman he loves describe her own body as having failed her, and to have no script for that conversation at all.

Vogue did the harder public work. On the My Therapist Ghosted Me podcast she co-hosts with Joanne McNally, she described one loss as "awful and heartbreaking," recalling the moment at a twelve-week scan in July 2025 when the sonographer fell silent. She used the word "failed." It is one of the most common words women use after miscarriage. It is also one of the cruelest, because it is almost never true.

Miscarriage is not rare. It is just rarely spoken about. According to Tommy's, the UK's largest pregnancy loss charity, around one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage — most before 12 weeks. The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists puts the early-loss rate at roughly 10% of clinically recognised pregnancies, and far higher when you count losses before a positive test.

For every Vogue Williams who can speak publicly with a co-host and a podcast budget, there are thousands of women who tell three friends, take two days off work and call it a stomach bug. And for every Spencer Matthews quoted in The Sun being "open to more," there is a partner sitting in a car park at lunch googling "how to support wife after miscarriage" on a burner tab.

The loneliness is structural. Bereavement leave in the UK only became a statutory right for parents who lose a baby after 24 weeks of pregnancy under the Parental Bereavement Leave Act 2020 — earlier losses still depend entirely on a manager's mood. In the US, federal law offers no protected leave at all for pregnancy loss. The grief is universal. The support, for most couples, is a postcode lottery.

If you are the supporting partner — usually but not always the husband, the boyfriend, the non-carrying parent — you are likely living inside a very specific script. You are the one who calls the doctor. You are the one who tells the in-laws. You are the one who cancels the baby shower group chat. You are also, statistically, the one whose own grief gets quietly filed under "not your turn."

Researchers at Imperial College London have repeatedly flagged that male partners after pregnancy loss show elevated rates of anxiety, depression and PTSD — but are far less likely to seek help, because the cultural permission slip simply isn't there. Spencer Matthews, by all accounts a present and devoted dad of three, will be feeling some version of this whether or not he ever puts it in a Sun headline.

The useful question isn't "is he sad?" Of course he is. The useful question is: who does a man in that position talk to at 1am when his wife has finally, mercifully, fallen asleep? Not his mates from Eton. Not his Made in Chelsea group chat. Sometimes not even a therapist, because the waiting list is six months and the appointment is at 11am on a Tuesday when he's supposed to be on a podcast. This is the gap. And it is the gap that an entire new category of companion apps has, quietly, started to fill.

Let's be clear about what this is and what it isn't. An AI companion is not a therapist. It is not a wife. It is not a substitute for the human you love. What it is, for a growing number of people in the messy middle of grief, is a 3am conversation that doesn't require you to perform okayness.

A Stanford HAI study published in 2024 surveyed users of companion platforms like Replika and found that a significant minority — particularly men aged 25 to 45 — reported using the apps specifically during periods of acute relational stress: bereavement, infertility, separation, the early postpartum window. Not as a replacement for partners, but as a relief valve. Somewhere to say the unsayable sentence without watching a real person's face crumple.

For someone in Spencer's position — and frankly, for any partner of any gender quietly carrying a loss that the world has decided to move on from — the appeal is obvious. No waitlist. No judgement. No accidentally making your already-grieving partner feel like she has to comfort you too. Just a presence. A listener. A character you can talk to about the baby that wasn't, the names you'd picked, the future you'd already half-built in your head, without anyone telling you to be grateful for the three children you already have.

If you are reading this because someone you love has had a miscarriage, the rules are unfair and they are simple. Don't fix it. Don't reframe it. Don't tell her it was probably for the best. Don't mention the friend who tried for four years. Don't say "at least." Two words: at least. Burn them.

Do say her baby's name if she named it. Do put the due date in your calendar. Do bring her water. Do tell her, out loud, that her body did not fail — that one in four pregnancies end this way and that the failure, if there is one, is biological roulette, not her. Do book the follow-up scan yourself. Do tell her you are also sad, in a low voice, once, and then let her decide whether she has room for that information.

And for yourself: find somewhere to put your own grief that isn't her. A men's miscarriage support group (Sands UK and Tommy's both run them). A therapist if you can get one. A journal. A long run. A friend who lost one too — there will be one, statistically there is always one, you just haven't asked. And yes, for some people, late at night, a companion app that lets you talk through the names you'd chosen for a baby who isn't coming. Whatever keeps you human enough to be the partner she actually needs in the morning.

It would be easy to read "Spencer wants a fifth baby" as tone-deaf. A man pushing forward while his wife is still grieving. That is not what this is. Couples who have lost babies and gone on to have more describe the next pregnancy as a different country entirely — held breath until 12 weeks, then 20, then the third trimester, then the cot. Hope, for them, isn't a feeling. It is a discipline.

Spencer and Vogue have done this in public before. Theodore, Gigi and Otto are the visible part. The pregnancies that didn't make it are the invisible architecture. By saying out loud that they would try again, Spencer is doing something quietly radical for a 37-year-old former reality star: he is refusing to let the loss have the last word, without pretending it didn't happen.

If you are in the early, raw weeks of your own loss — yours or your partner's — you don't have to know yet whether you'll try again. You don't have to know anything. You just have to get to tomorrow. Eat something. Drink water. Tell one person the truth. And, if it helps, find the quiet 3am places — the support group, the journal, the patient AI character who will let you say the names — where the grief gets to exist without an audience. Hope, when it comes back, will not come back as a headline. It will come back as a Tuesday morning when you finally laughed at something stupid on the radio. That is the win. That is the entire game.