Our mother was different, but that’s what we liked about her. While other children had strict routines and consequences, we had freedom and frivolity— and we didn’t want the party to end.

Having the correct label meant understanding Mum had no control when she was under the influence of her illness. Until then I had judged her and found her wanting: as a mother, a wife, a human being.

My brother and I only had each other and it was our job to protect Mum from well-meaning adults who saw her as an adult-child incapable of performing her parental responsibilities.

She was a victim of her own brain chemistry, and as her daughter my role was to accept and love her for who she was, not who I wanted her to to be.