As I watched my daughter Emily, then seven, twirl around in her sparkly leotard, she had the biggest grin on her face. Nothing made her happier than dancing on stage. It was 2001, and as Emily high-kicked her way to the end of her performance, I got to my feet and gave a round of applause. ‘They were great!’ the woman next to me said. Claire, then 27, was there to see her daughter Libby, also seven, who was in the same show. ‘Brilliant,’ I replied with a smile. Each week, as Claire and I sat through Saturday morning dance classes, we bonded over motherhood. I’d tell her about my partner Martin, and we’d chat about the girls and Emily’s brother Matthew, who was five years younger. The two of us
