At fifteen, relocating to the other side of the city had been liberating. I’d moved to a school where no one knew me; they knew nothing of my past. I was desperate to feel part of something for once in my life. I formed new friendships, if you could call them that, and started seeing boys. Looking back, I was only ever on the periphery of things, never really properly accepted. But at the time, I was swept along with whichever group I had briefly attached myself to. I see now that my actions were wildly and guilelessly misjudged.

I didn’t know I was pregnant. Well, not for sure. I tried my best to ignore the symptoms, put the lack of periods down to the fact that my cycle had always been a bit erratic. Lying in bed at night, I’d run a hand over my stomach, wondering in my naivety if its slightly swollen state was water retention, or weight gain, due to the improved nutrition I was receiving under Auntie Jane’s roof.

He was seventeen, two years older than me; dark and gorgeous. At least, I thought so at the time. He rode a motorbike and would take me on the back, speeding through the streets as I clutched onto his waist. I loved the sense of freedom, the rush of exhilaration, my hair billowing out behind me. I had no helmet and no thought for safety. My heart lurches now at the thought of my youthful stupidity.

It was exciting that someone more mature could find me attractive and I was flattered. Of course, I was no more than a brief distraction for him and he moved on to a girl in the year above me all too readily. But there had never been a proper relationship to mourn, and after the initial disappointment, I got over it quite quickly. Some months later, I had heard that he’d been sent to prison for two years, for aggravated burglary. I wasn’t particularly upset.

The pain had been sudden and violent. I woke in the night not knowing what was happening. At first, I thought it must have been something I’d eaten, but the cramps grew stronger and stronger, like bad period pain. I went to the bathroom and realised that I was losing a large amount of blood. I vomited and was doubled over in agony. I don’t know how long it went on for – it felt like hours. Hunched on the bathroom floor, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror: my face was grey, my eyes hollow. I resisted for some time, but it was frightening and I knew I needed help. Eventually, I called out for Auntie Jane.

She came through from her bedroom, her eyes heavy with sleep. From the look of shock on her face, she must have known what was happening. Whether she’d suspected anything before, I don’t know.