My parents threw me out at sixteen after I lost my leg. Nineteen years later they wanted a million dollars for my sister — to hide why a 24 -year-old woman may never walk again.

My mother has left eleven voicemails. I have listened to two.

In the second one she says that I have destroyed this family, and then, in the same message, that she has always been proud of what I have made of myself.

The gala in the autumn went ahead, because it was contracted and the venue would not refund, and I went.

I wore a dress that shows the leg, because that is what I do.

And my mother came across that ballroom in front of two hundred people and took hold of my wrist and said, with her hostess smile still completely intact:

Not here. These people are donors.

I met Tamsin in the November.

She had not asked to meet me. Her solicitor asked whether she would like to and she said she would think about it, and it took nine days.

I did not bring a cheque. There is money now — properly, through the process, and separately from me — and I am not going to write about it because it is hers.