by Philippa Warner
There’s nothing more terrifying than starting to doubt your own sanity, feeling so undermined and belittled that you begin to wonder if you are losing your mind.
I still feel a sense of creeping dread and nausea when I recall just one incident of many that gave me this sensation: how my children’s nanny swore I’d agreed to launder their uniforms, the morning after I was sure she’d said she had it in hand.
Hands on hips, she barked: ‘Blame your mother that you don’t have any clean clothes. She told me that she was doing the washing last night!’
Had I? After years of her gaslighting tricks — behaviour I cottoned on to far too late — I almost believed I must be in the wrong.
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And though it’s five years since she — let’s call her Diana — finally left our family, even now at 51 I’m shaken at the mention of her name, the smell of someone wearing her perfume or the sight of her car, which I still see as she lives just a few miles away.
They serve as unwelcome reminders of the way she tried to turn my children against me, slowly eroding my confidence.
Initially, Diana seemed like a brilliant hire: kind to my three children (Harry*, then ten, Oscar, eight, and Amelia, seven) and doted on by them.
Yet during her eight-year reign of terror,...
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