Somewhere in my house, stuffed in a box, at the back of a cupboard, there's a picture of three carefully drawn stick figures.

It's a picture that speaks thousands of words, all of them too terrible to hear. Each figure has long, spindly legs, dots for noses and falling teardrops.

Just like any mother with a young family, there's no shortage of cherished childhood artwork like this in our house. But the six-year-old artist of this picture isn't either of my children – it was me. And it's far from cherished.

I picked up those felt tip pens 24 years ago when asked by a counsellor to express my emotions about the cancer I was suffering – and the fact I'd probably die soon.

I can remember exactly how I felt: scared, confused and deeply sad at the thought of leaving my family, friends and puppy behind. I also desperately hoped that heaven would be just as beautiful as everyone promised.

The idea of a young child dying is so shocking, so unnatural, that it strikes horror into the heart of everyone, especially every parent – or so you'd think. Except I know that isn't always the case. 

My own mother – the one who was supposed to love and protect me above all others – was revelling in my illness and adored the attention and sympathy that having a child with a terminal diagnosis was bringing her.

How do I know this? Because she made the whole thing up.

My 'cancer' was a complete lie, a disgusting fabrication, done not only to fleece money out of generous-hearted people, but also feed her sick craving for validation and respect.

Today, I look at my beautiful children, my four-year-old daughter, and my son who's the same age I was when I drew that picture, and I'd give my life for theirs in an instant.

The idea of harming them in any way is revolting to me. But this is exactly what my callous mother, Teresa Milbrandt, did.

In 2003, she was sentenced to six-and-half years in prison for child endangerment, grand theft and theft. She conned 65 people and businesses into donating $31,000 (£23,000) for my fictional illness.

Her decisions destroyed my life for years, undermining my ability to trust anyone or anything, including my own body. It is only through determination and the love of my father, husband and children that I am still here today.

My happiest childhood memories are spending time with my dad, Bob, now 64. Warm and loving, we both adored playing board games.

Teresa was the total opposite.

She was cold and distant, with a nasty temper – not that she ever showed that to other people. To everyone in our small town of Urbana, Ohio, she was the perfect mother – a district nurse, no less.

But on the whole, I was a happy child – and a healthy one. Dad travelled a lot with his job for a printing company, and was away the day in 2001 when, aged six, I came down with a cold.

It was just a runny nose and sore throat, but the next thing I remember is being examined in the GP's office and then being wheeled into a scary MRI scanner, and no one was telling me why.

After a tense drive home, during which my mother still hadn't told me what was happening, I walked back into our living room to find Dad sitting there, with one of my much older half-sisters, my grandparents and our neighbour all waiting, their faces white.

Mum began speaking: she had some terrible news. I had cancer.

Being so young, a lot of her words didn't make sense. She talked about leukaemia, a small tumour on the base of my spine, chemotherapy and radiation treatments, which sounded like very bad things.

I instantly looked at Dad and, even at such a young age, I could see the devastation in his face was real.

Mum, meanwhile, was calm and emotionless, as if she was a teacher speaking to a class.

In the end Dad took me up to my bedroom, pulled out a favourite game and set it up. As we played, I listened to him say that, yes, this was scary, but we'd figure it out, that I was strong and that everything would be OK. I desperately wanted to believe him.

My life took on a strange, new rhythm. Mum took on my care, which made sense given her medical training and the fact Dad was away a lot.

Mornings began with a cocktail of medications that made me feel groggy and dazed, with near constant headaches. Then every week Mum would drive me to my chemotherapy sessions. They always went the same way: a trip to the local ice cream shop for a drink, after which I'd fall asleep on the journey to hospital and wake up on the ride home.

I'd feel lethargic, with a thumping headache, and a new plaster on my chest or arm, and Mum would tell me what a brave girl I'd been.

At school everyone knew what was happening to me. Mum insisted I wore a face mask when I left the house to protect me from germs, and there was a mini fridge in the classroom for my special snacks to eat alongside the medication Mum had told the teachers to give me throughout the day.

I hated being the centre of attention, but Mum absolutely thrived on it. She became a different person, even behind closed doors. Now she was openly affectionate, with hugs and kisses, constantly holding my hand and calling me 'her poor baby'.

Living in a town of only 11,000 people, news of my illness had spread fast, and my mother lit up whenever anyone stopped us on the street to ask how we were doing and tell her how amazing and strong she was.

Her fundraising for my healthcare costs also started immediately. As well as taking in individual donations from friends, family and strangers, our local fire department had a fundraising dinner.

One day I walked into the supermarket and saw fundraising cans with my face on them, which was mortifying. My mother, of course, lapped it all up.

One morning, around two months after my diagnosis, I looked in the bathroom mirror and screamed: I was completely bald! My mother soothed me as I sobbed, telling me that, as she had warned, hair loss was to be expected following chemotherapy, and showed me the pretty new hat I could now wear.

At the time I was so distressed I didn't wonder why I hadn't seen any hair on my pillow, despite having gone to bed with a full head of hair. It felt as if a vital piece of me was gone.

Mum tried to cheer me up by organising for my school to have a sponsored 'Hats for Hannah' day.

Through it all, I felt lethargic and ill, and Dad was constantly pale and anxious, working round the clock to pay the medical bills.

Seven months after my diagnosis, Mum gave me the terrible news. The treatments weren't working, she said, and the cancer was growing rapidly. I might only have a few weeks left to live.

I felt torn. On one hand I knew that I was going to Heaven, which Mum told me was a happy place. But I was devastated to be leaving my family and confused about why this was happening to me. Why wasn't I going to grow up and have a family? Why did God choose me for this? It was such a scary time.

Mum arranged for me to have what she called 'death counselling', to see a professional I could talk to. It was there, in her office, that I drew those three weeping stick figures.

I'd wake every morning thinking, 'Is today the day I'm going to Heaven?' I remember blowing out my birthday candles that August for my seventh birthday, thinking it would be the last time – and wondering if I'd get a cake in Heaven next year.

A month later I was in class when in walked the school nurse, school counsellor and a police officer, asking me to follow them.

They began asking about Mum. Was she a good mum, did she take good care of me? What was my doctor's name?

My confusion grew as my maternal grandparents suddenly appeared, took me to their house and began pacing about in a frenzy. The picture was no clearer when Dad arrived that evening and silently drove me home.

Then he sat me down and said quietly: 'Hannah, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that Mum has done something very bad. She's been lying. The good news is that you don't have cancer and you're not going to die.'

My immediate reaction was joy. I wasn't sick! I was going to live! I was going to grow up and blow out the candles on my birthday cakes, for ever! Utter bewilderment followed.

What did he mean, Mum had been lying? Lying about what? And where was she?

For a second there was silence. Then he said: 'Mum's been making this all up, pretending that you were sick. You're not sick and she's in very big trouble.'

I realised he was both terrified and angry, an emotion I'd never seen from him before. It made me even more confused and scared. My stomach churned. Where was mum? 'In the hospital', he said. I didn't know it then, but it was a psychiatric hospital – because she was attempting to plead insanity.

However, a few days later she was back at home. I was so relieved. Mum was herself again, I wasn't dying and life would go back to normal. I went to sleep in their bed and felt safe.

Yet, my joy was short-lived. The next morning Dad was shaking me awake; we'd all been asked to attend the police station. Next thing, Dad was taken into another room. 

I was screaming, pleading with the police not to take him, but the door closed and he was gone. A woman – who turned out to be my new foster parent – told me to stop crying and took me away. Nothing was explained to me.

For the next year, I was looked after by foster carers while the police began building a case against both my parents, who were in jail as they awaited trial, facing charges of theft and child endangerment – though I believe my dad knew nothing of my mother's deception. 

Everyone did their best to shield me but gradually, over time, I learned the devastating truth: my mother had fabricated my entire illness; I'd never actually been to hospital or seen a specialist.

She'd been feeding me unneeded medications and sleeping pills, then when I woke up, simply told me I'd had chemotherapy. As for my hair, she'd shaved it off, presumably while I was sedated.

She'd been caught when the counsellor I'd been seeing tried to put me forward for a charity that grants wishes to terminally ill children. She needed the name of my doctor for the application, only to discover the hospital had no records of me. That's when the police became involved.

Finally, Mum admitted charges of child endangerment, theft and grand theft, and was jailed for six and a half years. I've no idea what happened to all that money.

I later learned that in a statement read at the trial she said: 'I'm truly sorry for the pain I've inflicted. I only pray some day you can forgive me.'

As for Dad, he'd maintained his innocence throughout, but he was also adamant I shouldn't face the ordeal of giving evidence at trial, and so pleaded guilty to child endangerment, and served four years and 11 months in prison.

I was devastated. I believed then, and still do today, that Dad did nothing wrong, that he was manipulated by Teresa and played no part in my abuse.

The emotional and psychological impact of it all was devastating. I immediately felt guilty that this had somehow been my fault, that I hadn't been a good enough daughter and so Teresa had done it to make me more loveable.

Just before the sentencing, I was taken to see her in a prison visitation centre. She pretended everything was fine. As she tried to read me a story from a children's book, I looked at her and thought, 'I hate you'. 

There was the agony of missing Dad, shame at the constant comments and stares, and shock at a body that no longer felt ill. The pain, headaches and lethargy that had plagued me for nine months were gone, my hair grew back, yet I didn't feel happy or free.

After my year in foster care I was allowed to live with my aunt, my dad's sister. I desperately missed Dad and struggled with depression. The slightest sniffle or headache would send me spiralling. Did I have some dreadful illness or was it all in my head?

I was 12 when Dad was finally released, and he went to live with my grandma during his probation. He wasn't allowed to see me for a year, until he could prove he was 'fit' to have contact with me.

I was so nervous on my first visit to see him, but we fell into each other's arms crying.

Talking to him reinforced what I already believed; Dad had been duped, too. Teresa had planned all my appointments for days when he was away or altered them at the last minute so he couldn't attend.

Dad wasn't allowed to change any of my bandages because she was the one who was medically trained. In my eyes he was blameless and had gone to prison to protect me, although he says he still blames himself for not spotting the scam and stopping her. 

He has since divorced my mother and remarried in 2013. Mum was released in 2010, when I was 14. Part of me wanted to confront her in order to get answers, but at the same time I didn't want her in my life. I decided I never wanted to see her again.

I now realise her behaviour showed all the signs of Munchausen syndrome by proxy, where a parent either makes up fake symptoms or causes real symptoms to make it look as if their child is sick, in order to gain attention and sympathy.

When I was 19, I met Tanner, a student at college where I was studying to be a teacher. The kindest, most loving and patient man I'd ever met, we married seven years ago when I was 23.

Although I'd always wanted children, part of me was too scared. First was the deep-rooted fear of all the medical appointments that a pregnancy would involve, and once I had a baby, how would I be able to handle it if they became ill? Or if I thought they were ill, and no one believed me?

Then, of course, how could I be sure I'd be a good mother when I'd had no template for one? Yet when I held my son in my arms in August 2019, I felt such a wave of love and healing. This beautiful boy was like the missing puzzle piece that healed my heart.

Alongside the love was the overwhelming instinct to protect him, and the pain of what Teresa had done flooded back. How could someone take a beautiful, innocent child, and do to them what Teresa did to me?

But as every mother knows, you can't protect children from every knocked knee and tummy bug. And as my son, now six, and his sister, four, have grown, those moments have been hard.

I've seen Teresa just a couple of times in the years since. Once, she walked into the restaurant where I was working as a student.

When I asked her what the hell she was doing there, she actually looked shocked. 'I came to see you,' was all she could say. Then I realised it was Mother's Day – as if she still had any right to call herself that.

'You need to leave right now,' I managed to say, before walking away and asking my manager to get rid of her.

I saw her again a few years later, in the supermarket. This time I was able to walk past with almost total indifference and that felt like a triumph. I wasn't going to let her have any control over my life.

As far as I know she is still living in the same area. But I don't know anything else about her life, and I don't want to.

I don't hate her because I don't have room in my heart for that. It is too full of the love of my dad, my husband and our incredible children.

But forgive her? I don't think I will ever be able to do that.

• As told to KATE GRAHAM