Throughout Liz Hubbuck’s tumultuous childhood, a particular incident stands out as the most devastating: the day she discovered her mother planned to testify in defense of the man who had manipulated and abused her starting at the age of 13.

Instead of standing by Liz, her mother chose to support her abuser. “It was one of the worst moments of my life,” Liz recalls, describing it as an unimaginable betrayal.

This profound act of disloyalty, occurring when Liz was just 17, compounded the trauma from years of mistreatment and has taken her decades to process. Now 45, Liz has persevered through emotional turmoil that might have overwhelmed many. Remarkably, she now extends forgiveness to her mother.

More than mere forgiveness, Liz views her mother’s actions with a level of understanding that many might find impossible, interpreting them not as cruelty but as signs of her mother’s own emotional wounds.

Regarding the woman who was meant to be her protector and advocate, Liz has adopted an almost empathetic perspective.

“I’ve learned a great deal over the past 20 years,” Liz explains. “My mother made numerous mistakes, but she lacked the capacity to do otherwise. So, I think I’ll always forgive her because she wasn’t capable, although I can’t forget.” Liz, a poised and stylish brunette, embodies the image of a confident, successful individual—warm, engaging, and a devoted mother to her two sons, aged ten and 13.

Living in a smart corner of Hampshire, she works supporting young people as a youth engagement manager and safeguarding lead with the police. She has also worked with other child sexual abuse survivors.

She tells her extraordinary story with unflinching honesty in her memoir Hear Me.

‘It has taken determination and hard work to get to where I am,’ Liz says. ‘But I hope others can see it’s possible to survive some of the worst things life can throw at you.’

That she has the strength to offer guidance and empathy to others is a considerable achievement after a childhood defined by cruelty – one which could easily have been so very different.

Her mother began life in a market town in Hampshire, living in a large house overlooking a lake. Adopted by a ‘­well-to-do but austere family’, as Liz describes them, she went to a prestigious ­private boarding school. On the ­surface, every opportunity was available to her mother.

However, despite the social standing of her adoptive family, and the material luxury of her upbringing, her mother did not thrive.

‘In hindsight, there was a lot of neuro­diversity and other ­complex issues, like paranoia,’ Liz explains. ‘Mum had a lot of unmet needs. She didn’t have the tools for motherhood.’

Her mother’s internal emotional chaos was mirrored in the choices she made. Alcohol became a ­significant crutch, culminating in addiction and, by the time Liz was born, her mother was living on what she calls a ‘rough’ council estate in the south-east.

Her father – ‘a ‘Walter Mitty character’ – had multiple children by ­different women and little interest in parenthood. This left Liz ­effectively alone with her mother, who she now believes was battling serious mental health problems.

Their existence was hand-to-mouth: her mother was not functional enough to work. Benefits were the family’s sole income.

‘There was often no warmth in the house, no food, no clothes other than from an occasional jumble sale,’ she says. ‘Christmas and birthdays were awful. I remember wrapping anything I could find in the house in newspaper just to make it look like we had presents for the rare occasions we had visitors.

‘All the things people take for granted – food in the fridge, clean sheets – I just didn’t have that.’

With no father, little contact with maternal grandparents and Liz’s mother unable to form friendships, she was utterly isolated.

Against this backdrop, it is heartbreakingly easy to see how a neglected 13-year-old became the perfect target for a predator.

‘I was still incredibly vulnerable,’ says Liz. ‘Abusers know what to look for. And so often they’re in positions of trust.’ Like Andy Robinson, the new school bus driver who seemed kind and interested.

Liz remembers: ‘Our stop was the start of the route, so he’d get off and make chit-chat with the schoolkids – on the surface getting to know us, but in reality working out who was easy prey. Over time, the others would go off saying they thought he was weird, but I would stay and chat.’

When, on the last day of term, Robinson asked for her home ­number, Liz recalls feeling uneasy. ‘I knew it was wrong,’ she says. ‘But I was desperate for attention. Mum’s drinking was out of control. I was crying out for love.’

Robinson, who at first told Liz he was 25 but later admitted he was 32, moved quickly. That same night he called her, began sending ‘love’ ­letters and, within a week, ­persuaded her to go for a drive, where he kissed her. Two days later he sexually assaulted her in his car.

‘I felt so scared and out of my depth,’ she says softly. ‘He asked me for my knickers, gave me a gold pendant with “Angel” written on it, and said, “I’ll always be with you.”

‘I remember walking home crying and thinking, “What am I doing?” But my home life was so terrible it felt like my only ticket out. I had no idea what grooming was.’

Soon Robinson lured Liz to his flat, coerced her into taking the drug poppers and had sex with her, insisting it ‘cemented a relationship’. ‘I wasn’t ready for any of it,’ she says. ‘But I persuaded myself I was in love with him. He was so ­manipulative – he played Show Me Heaven by Maria McKee and told me the lyrics were about us.’

Robinson’s control quickly extended into the family home. He began visiting regularly – visits ­welcomed by Liz’s mother when he was introduced to her as her ‘boyfriend’. ‘She didn’t once question that her underage daughter was having a relationship with a grown man,’ Liz says. ‘But I now realise he manipulated her, too, making her feel special.’

Even when Liz plucked up the courage to confide in a teacher, social services failed to intervene when, under pressure from Robinson, she withdrew her allegations against him. ‘I was put on the at risk register, but Andy was such a puppet master I withdrew my statement – and no one thought to follow up,’ she says.

Years later, when she accessed her care records, she learned he’d already been identified as a risk to children. ‘Yes, we were refusing to engage with children’s services, but that in itself is a red flag,’ she says furiously. ‘They just didn’t do their job.’

Robinson’s domination over mother and daughter was total. When her mother inherited £80,000 from an uncle within her adoptive family (the founder of a paint company with no children, he left it to her) Robinson spent it all within weeks, with little to show for it.

Then came the moment that still haunts Liz. Returning from school one afternoon, she found her beloved pet guinea pig – her one source of comfort – lying dead on an oven tray.

‘It’s hard to put into words what I felt,’ she says shakily. ‘It was utterly shocking. It showed me what he was capable of. Even today I get flashbacks when I open the oven door.’

Still, she felt at a loss in terms of what to do. ‘I knew everything that was happening was wrong, but I didn’t know how to verbalise it. And I had no trusted adult. I felt totally trapped. I was 13 – I couldn’t just pack a bag and leave.’

The years that passed were ­consistent in their horror and humiliation. The final straw came just before Christmas 1994, when she was 16. Coming downstairs late one night, she found Robinson and her mother having sex.

‘While deep down I knew they were in a relationship, to see it with my own eyes was sickening. It made me see I should raise the alarm. While nothing had been done at the time, because of him I had been on a child protection register so I knew ­someone would have to act.’

She was right. After telling a teacher she trusted the following day, she was taken into emergency foster care. ‘From that point I never lived with mum again,’ she says.

Foster care was not a happy experience, and Liz had moved into temporary accommodation on her own when, aged 17, a social worker came to see her. Letters Robinson had forced her to write expressing her ‘enjoyment’ at their relationship had been discovered at his flat during a police search that had been prompted by another ­allegation. ‘I never wanted to write those ­letters, but he was obsessed with me writing to him,’ she says. ‘So it was ironic they were the things that got him in the end.’

Robinson was arrested and charged with sexual offences – but what should have felt like a victory was quickly sullied when, before the trial, Liz was dealt the crushing blow that her mother planned to testify in his defence.

‘In essence, she was going to say she was in a relationship with Andy, and I was the jealous daughter. It was absolutely horrible, so upsetting. I forgive my mum for a lot, but going to court to say that your daughter’s lying – I do ­struggle with that,’ Liz says, with considerable understatement.

News that paedophile Ian Watkins was murdered in prison earlier this month triggered memories of her emotional torment, when it was revealed the Lostprophets singer extended his manipulation and control to the mothers of his victims in order to gain access.

A judge said one woman was ‘guilty of the greatest betrayal a mother could commit’ for ­allowing him to indulge his sick fantasies. Liz says: ‘Like Andy, what Ian Watkins did is beyond vile, and it’s terrifying how predators in positions of power like him exploit that position to form relationships with mothers to gain control and further access to children.

‘By forming bonds with ­mothers, especially those who are vulnerable or isolated, they create a false sense of safety and trust, which not only shields them from ­suspicion but also gives them proximity to their victims.

‘These relationships become a twisted layer of protection, ­allowing them to manipulate and isolate their victims further.

‘It’s a calculated, sickening abuse of power and privilege that preys on adoration, love, trust and vulnerability.’

Liz refused to be in court when her mother gave evidence, but remembers the callousness of her own cross-examination. Robinson’s defence barrister suggested she was a ‘good actress’, pointing out she was studying performing arts at college.

Justice, though, prevailed. Robinson was found guilty of sexually assaulting a child under 16 and sentenced to 24 months in prison.

‘When he got out after serving half his sentence, he moved back in with my mum,’ Liz observes wryly. By then she was determined to move forward. Working tirelessly in any job she could find, she put herself through a degree at Middlesex University. ‘I got myself through college and ­university all off my own back.

‘I always worked. But being a care leaver without family ­support is tough.’

Forging relationships proved equally difficult. ‘Building stable, loving relationships has been really hard because I never had it, I was never shown it,’ she admits. Nonetheless, although she is no longer with the father of her two sons, she says they co-parent happily. ‘I think I’m a good mum and, regardless of whether I’m with their dad or not, I think we’ve created a stable, happy environment for them,’ she says.

This, too, was a hard-fought ­victory. Liz was nervous about becoming a mother: ‘I worried terribly that I wouldn’t be able to break the cycle. But ultimately I knew I’d do everything I could to protect my children and be the mum I had needed so much.’

Now settled in Hampshire, Liz has also determinedly channelled her past into purpose, helping vulnerable young people rebuild their own sense of self-worth.

Today she has no idea where her abuser is, and is happy never to find out. ‘I believe he’s been in and out of prison for offences such as the ones he ­committed against me,’ she says. ‘I don’t think he was capable of change.’

Remarkably, Liz has maintained some contact with her mother, now 75 and living quietly in the south-east. Robinson has long played no part in her life.

‘I didn’t see her for years,’ she says. ‘Then I started to see her very sporadically, as I realised it was better for me not to carry the drama of estrangement. I’ve been able to see that in many ways she was a victim, too.’

Nonetheless, being in contact comes at a price. ‘At first, I tried to have a conversation about what happened in order for her to take some kind of accountability, but she just won’t – in fact, she would almost blame it on me, telling me it was different for her back then. I’ll never overcome that.

‘Fundamentally, I don’t like being around her. There’s some stuff that makes my skin crawl to think about it. When I’m with her it’s at the front of my mind, so I try to limit how much I see her.’

Her own children have also met her mother sporadically. ‘They see her as little as I do. They know about my childhood, know I was fostered as “nanny” couldn’t look after me. And, as they get older, they can see the clear differences between her and other people.

‘Thankfully, they have a very close bond with their paternal grandmother so don’t ask too many questions about my mum.’

Liz – who says she did not pursue therapy as it just didn’t work for her – thinks it’s unlikely her mother will read her book. In any case, she says, her memoir is not written for her mother, but for the estimated one in 20 children who are victims of sexual abuse before they turn 16.

‘I want to give them a voice,’ she says. ‘Particularly now that ­paedophiles aren’t just on the streets or in the youth club – they are inside your kids’ phones and in their laptops.

‘I want my story to remind us children cannot be expected to protect themselves. So many times the focus is on the victims rather than on the perpetrators.’

More than anything, she hopes her journey shows recovery is possible – and the importance of lending a helping hand.

‘My book is about survival,’ she says. ‘I had a great teacher and the book talks about the importance of a positive role model in anybody’s life because, with support, even those from the most difficult ­circumstances can achieve ­amazing things.’

Hear Me, by Liz Hubbuck (Mirror Books, £9.99) is on sale now.