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.

I had heavy aluminium crutches that never fitted properly, because a decent prosthetic was, in my mother’s words, an unnecessary expense at your age.

When guests came, I was sent upstairs.

Stay out of sight. We don’t need everybody asking uncomfortable questions about your leg.

She was not protecting me. She was embarrassed by me. I understood the difference by about eleven.

PART 2

When I was sixteen they hired a photographer for a formal family portrait.

I was trying to cross the living room quietly, out of the way, and the tip of my crutch slipped on the polished floor.

A glass of red wine went over and across my mother’s white cashmere rug.

I hit the floor hard. My hip was black for a fortnight.

My father never asked whether I was hurt.