Dear Diary,

My name is Rachel Danes. I was once Rachel Faisal, but I’ve been divorced for six years so I reverted to my maiden name. The woman from social services – Kerry – told me that writing a diary might help me to make sense of what’s happened. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but at this point in time, I’m willing to try.

My life this past seven years has gone from being a nightmare to being non-existent. An echo of a life. Like no one can hear me properly and I can’t connect with reality. I get up in the morning to take my daughter Jess to school, I go to work as an admin assistant at the big insurance firm down the road. I come home, make dinner, try to keep the place tidy, but my heart isn’t in it. My heart isn’t in anything.

If it weren’t for Jess, I would be dead. Sounds brutal, but it’s the truth.

And then, last week, a miracle happened. It didn’t start off as a miracle – I had a visit from the police and from social services. Just the sight of them in their uniforms and suits with their air of officialness brought it all rushing back. The horror of losing my baby. The pointed fingers. The blame. The collapse of my marriage. Here they were again. To cause more chaos and upset.

And then I thought maybe they’d come to tell me they’d found Holly’s body. That I would finally be able to lay her to rest and have some closure. A kind of peace, if you like. But that wasn’t it at all.

It was something else. Something I never believed could ever happen. They asked if they could come in, and of course I had to say yes. So they came in and sat on the sofa in my sad little flat and I sat opposite them on one of the dining-room chairs. And they told me the thing they’d come to tell me:

Holly is alive.

They had to repeat themselves several times because I couldn’t accept what they were saying. I thought I was in bed, asleep. Dreaming. Because what they were saying was the thing that I never thought I would ever hear. I’d fantasised about it, of course I had. But that was all in my mind; not in real life.

Holly is alive!

Even writing the words fills me with joy and gives me proper goosebumps. Not only is she alive. But she’s happy and healthy and has never been harmed physically or emotionally – so they say. She’s a well-adjusted ten-year-old girl who goes to school and has friends and a family. A family.

Only they’re not her family, are they…

Kerry, the woman from social services, told me that I’d fainted after they told me she was alive, but one of the officers rushed over and caught me before I slid off the chair and hit the floor. When I came around, we were still in my lounge and they’d sat me on the sofa and made me a cup of sweet tea. I said I didn’t want tea, I wanted to see my daughter. I stood up, but I was all woozy, so I had to sit back down again.

All those years of imagining the worst. Each day going to hell and back. Wanting to end it all. But somehow keeping a tiny spark of hope burning. Hope that mocked and denied me every day. Until now.

But even now, after the best news imaginable, Kerry told me that the situation is not straightforward. That Holly doesn’t know who she really is. She thinks her name is Jess! How weird is that? They named her Jess – same as my youngest.

Holly believes her parents are this other couple called Matthew and Rachel. Rachel, same as me! Only Kerry explained that the woman who took her was mentally disturbed and Rachel is not her real name. Kerry reassured me that Jess hadn’t been harmed and wasn’t in any danger, only that this woman ‘Rachel’ thought she was me! I don’t quite get it, to be honest. All I know is that I want to see my daughter. I have to see her.

Surprise, surprise, bloody Andy doesn’t want to know. He went quiet on the phone when I told him his eldest daughter was alive. I know he was choked up. I could tell by his silence. But then he cleared his throat and said that it was probably best if he didn’t get involved. That his family needed him in Spain. ‘Probably best!’ What an absolute bastard. Well, at least I know where he stands. Which is abso-bloody-lutely nowhere, as usual.

Anyway, enough about my loser ex-husband. I kicked up a huge fuss after the authorities said I couldn’t see Holly straight away. I mean, who do they think they are? They can’t just tell me she’s alive and then say, ‘Oh and by the way, you can’t see her.’ She’s my daughter!

After I had a chance for it all to sink in, I got on the phone to social services and went down to their offices, and then to the police station. I threatened to sue and to go to the papers. I haven’t felt so alive in years. It’s like someone’s lit a fire under me. I feel like I could do anything.

Finally, after an emergency court hearing yesterday, the authorities have agreed that I can see her. I can actually see my daughter! The only thing is, I can’t tell her who I am. Not yet. I have to pretend I’m a relation – an aunt. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to stop myself from crying all over her. From hugging my baby and kissing her and swinging her around in my arms. How will I manage to keep myself together? I can barely do it now. I’m crying all over my diary. Smudging the ink.

But after having another long chat with Kerry, I do understand that this is what’s best for Holly, not what’s best for me. I have to hide my anger about what happened. I have to be calm and laid-back about it all. And I have to call her Jess, because apparently that’s her name now. She’s been through a rough time, thinking her fake mum has had a breakdown. Kerry told me the woman – her fake mum, the woman who stole her from me – has been arrested and sectioned. Good job, because if she wasn’t locked up I’d probably have killed her.

My poor Holly. It tears me up inside thinking what she must be going through. They haven’t explained to her yet that this woman isn’t her real mother. They have to take things slowly. Which is why I have to start off being her aunt.

But whatever she calls me – aunt, friend, mum – I’m here for her now. I may not be able to tell her who I am straight away. I may have to be patient. It could take weeks, or months, maybe even years to reconnect with her properly. But it doesn’t matter. Because my baby is alive.

She’s alive.

And now… so am I.