I spent that night on my sister Jo's sofa in her tiny flat above a launderette.

I called Tom forty times. He'd blocked my number. I sent emails. No reply.

A week later, a letter came from the Whitfield family solicitor. Tom was divorcing me for adultery. He was offering me five thousand pounds, “as a goodwill gesture,” if I signed quickly and never contacted the family again.

I wrote back asking for a DNA test, as soon as it was safe to do one. The solicitor replied that Mr Whitfield “did not feel a test was necessary.”

That Sunday, someone knocked on Jo's door. It was Frank Whitfield, Tom's father.

Frank was a quiet man. He'd built Whitfield Motors from one used-car lot into twelve dealerships across the North West. At family dinners, Elaine did the talking, and Frank did the listening.

He stood on the doorstep in the rain with an envelope in his hand.

“I believe you, love,” he said. “I can't say it at home. But I believe you. Keep every piece of paper. Keep those photos. One day, the truth will matter.”

Inside the envelope was five thousand pounds of his own money.