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.

He went into the kitchen and came back carrying a black rubbish bag and pushed it against my chest.

He said: we are sick of carrying you.

He said: pack your things and get out.

For a second I thought he was just angry and it would pass, the way things did.

Then my mother walked over and opened the front door.

That was when I understood.

Celestine was fourteen. She was sitting on the sofa looking at her nails, and she did not look up.

Not when he said it. Not when the door opened. Not when I went past her with the bag.

I put three changes of clothes into it. That was more or less everything I owned.

Sixteen years old. One leg. Two crutches that did not fit. One bin bag.