I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my mum’s Hyundai Santa Fe, and I’m frozen, my eyes fixed on the dark, empty road ahead. I’m still in my school uniform and I’m gripping her hand tightly. She’s just finished telling me about the enduring sexual abuse she experienced from her father throughout her childhood. I’m nine, the same age that my mum was while she was being subjected to this abuse.

The confessional nature of the conversation wasn’t unusual. Growing up, we always talked about everything, from the difficulties in my parents’ relationship to her historical eating disorder. One evening, when I was around five, my mum showed me emails sent to my dad by another woman. I held her in my bed while she cried, dabbing her eyes with toilet roll.

My love and adoration for my mum has always felt somewhat obsessive. I would say I was infatuated with her, and my craving for her love felt like a panicked hunger that could never be satisfied. When we had babysitters or had to go to after-school clubs, I would feel extremely stressed and anxious, counting down the minutes until we could be back together. I also vividly remember having intrusive thoughts about her dying; I felt sure that if that happened, I would simply die too.

“I thought my mum was my best friend – it took years for me to realise we were actually enmeshed”