The letters – vitriolic, personal, combative – arrived by email every single day of her holiday. Annalie Howling had organised a modest trip abroad with her young daughter. A chance to reset during a fraught time of their lives; to be quietly immersed in the gentle pleasures of a mum-and-child break.
Instead, she was besieged by the stream of spiteful messages, timed very deliberately to disrupt her week in Portugal with her little girl.
‘My reaction, when I read each one, was to gasp. They were designed to shame me, cause anxiety.
‘I was on my own with my daughter who had just
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