Playing in the front garden, I pirouetted showing off my best ballet moves.
‘Strike a pose,’ my mum Susan, 25, smiled whilst I twirled in my pink costume.
As she snapped some pics, I made myself dizzy.
It was 3 March 1980 and I was a happy four-year-old dancing and playing dress-up with my mum.
We did everything together, ever since my dad, David, left when I was two.
From long walks to the local lakes and singing in the kitchen – we were the best of friends.
Mum’s previous lodger Carol, 18, would make an effort to come with us and even when she left our house to move to another property, she would still meet up with us.
‘Look at me, Mummy,’ I laughed, jumping higher.
But before Mum had a chance to watch, there was a man interrupting our fun.
‘Susan? Hi, it’s John,’ he said, holding a suitcase.
