It’s a mother’s worst nightmare: from birth, there was no bond with my daughter, Amelia. As soon as she was old enough to speak, I discovered why: she insisted I was not her mother. The doctor said it was classic autism, her disinterest with human connection, with me and everyone else. But I believed we had a problem far more sinister than that: the only thing Amelia was connected to was an eerie, hand-knitted doll, ‘Mandy,’ that we acquired by mistake after Amelia’s birth. The pregnant Hispanic woman in our birthing suite was moved to another room to deliver - we had paid for the double, after all, so my husband insisted on the move - and had forgotten to take the doll with her. That doll, Amelia’s obsession, was the bane of our lives. But it was also the only clue we had to understanding a mix-up so unreal that no one else would ever believe it.