I’ll never forget the first time I breastfed Bella, holding her in my arms as we cuddled close on the sofa. It was a magical moment of bonding.

Then she looked up at me with her big blue eyes as if to say: ‘You’re not my mum, but this is nice, so I’ll carry on.’

I smiled at her slightly bemused expression, because this gorgeous baby was absolutely right. I wasn’t Bella’s mummy; I was her grandma.

If you just took a sharp intake of breath, I understand. At a time when mothers still face judgment over their decisions around breastfeeding, the choice to breastfeed a grandchild seems like the ultimate taboo.

No matter that throughout history rich families hired ‘wet nurses’ to feed their babies and poorer mothers happily shared the task. Or that feeding your child’s child is both natural and beautiful. Combine the words ‘breastfeeding’ and ‘grandma’ and it seems to cross an unbreachable line.

I lost a previously close friend after sharing my decision to breastfeed not just one, but two of my daughter Laura’s children, and provide expressed milk for a third.

You may see me as controversial, even odd. But my loving partner and family support me. I’m an upstanding member of my community, and own a firm delivering mental health training. And I’m not alone in this. Last month Penny Lancaster, now 54, revealed she donated her breast milk to granddaughter Delilah in 2011 after the baby’s mother – Penny’s stepdaughter Kimberley, just eight years younger – wasn’t producing enough milk. Penny had given birth to her own son Aidan, now 14, just six months earlier.

‘It was a real motherhood bonding moment,’ Penny explained. ‘I remember thinking, “What’s the most important thing for this child?” I knew my milk would give her the nutrients and antibodies she needed.’

I quite agree, and I want to share my own journey to hopefully inspire others to see the beauty in what the female body can do and how women can support each other.

You might say there’s a world of difference between expressing and breastfeeding a grandchild, But, in fact, the milk is the same.

I’ve always had a strong maternal instinct. After meeting my partner John at the motor trade training centre in Doncaster, I was thrilled when I became pregnant. I talked to my midwife about breastfeeding, but following a difficult birth, my beautiful daughter just couldn’t latch on. Seeing how hungry Laura was, I turned to formula, but I was filled with guilt at being unable to feed her myself. I felt like a failure.

Thankfully that didn’t stop an incredible bond building between us and when my relationship with John ended when Laura was three, it became even tighter. But I swore that if I was lucky enough to have another baby, I’d do everything I could to breastfeed. By the time I was 35 it felt like life had hit a lovely rhythm. I’d met my partner Steven two years earlier and we were very happy. Then one Friday I came home to find a note from Laura, then 15, telling me she was pregnant.

At first I was devastated. The dream you have for your children is university, career, marriage and then children. But after the shock wore off I pulled myself together and promised to support her, whatever she wanted to do.

After Evie was born in 2012, Laura couldn’t breastfeed, so I helped with formula feeds. Then, when Evie was seven months, I was thrilled to discover I was pregnant. Oliver’s birth in 2013 was wonderful, and to my delight I could breastfeed from the start. I adored it, from the closeness it created between us to the awe I felt at what my body was capable of. One day I’d taken my expressed breast milk and put it in a bottle for Oliver. Seeing his disinterest, I put it on the floor, only to realise Evie, then 19 months, had grabbed it without me noticing and started drinking it. Some people may have reacted with dismay, but I knew it wouldn’t do her any harm, and when Laura came home and I told her what had happened we both just laughed.

As far as we were concerned, Evie drinking my breast milk wasn’t weird at all. In fact, we agreed it was good she would experience the health benefits of my milk. Steven didn’t comment on it either, or on the handful of times it happened in the following months. When I had some milk spare, it seemed a shame for it to go to waste.

After I stopped breastfeeding Oliver when he was 11 months, I had no idea I’d later have another child of my own – and two more granddaughters – breastfeeding in my arms.

In March 2016 my second son Ben was born, nine months after my second granddaughter, Bella. By then Laura was living with her partner but we saw each other often. I loved watching Bella and Evie if Laura needed to go out.

It was on one of those days, when I’d fed four-month-old Ben and he was fast asleep, that I realised Bella, then 13 months, was hungry. Laura had been able to breastfeed this time and so it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to take Bella on to my lap and feed her myself.

I know some people will be hugely shocked that I’d cross this boundary, particularly without asking Laura’s permission first.

Some may say it’s unnatural, but I’d argue nature has designed women’s bodies to do this. I could give Bella what she needed, and as Ben had already had his feed it would be of no detriment to him. And to realise I could nurture both my son and my granddaughter was an incredible feeling.

While I hadn’t discussed it with Laura, I knew she wouldn’t mind.

As I expected, when I explained what had happened it didn’t bother her in the slightest; all that mattered was Bella was happy and fed. I breastfed Bella three more times over the next few months on occasions when I was looking after her. Laura and I hadn’t discussed that this would be the case; it just felt right.

I also did the same a handful of times for Bella’s sister Violet, who was born in August 2016. It was amazing to me that my body could nurture my then seven-month-old son, my 15-month-old granddaughter and her one-month-old sister. There was no sterilising bottles or buying formula; if they were hungry, I could feed them there and then.

Of course, if Laura was there then she would be the one to feed Bella and Violet, and I wouldn’t have fed them outside my own home. Laura and I joked about what other people would think if they knew. But it wasn’t until December 2016, when Violet was four months old, that I saw for myself just how extreme the reaction could be.

‘Do you know, I fed Violet the other day,’ I said in passing to a friend, who was not a mother. Instantly her face contorted as she replied: ‘That’s disgusting.’

I felt horribly judged, so rather than respond I changed the subject. But her harsh words opened my eyes to how judgmental she was, causing a rift between us. The friendship never recovered.

While her visceral reaction didn’t make me reconsider what I’d done, I decided not to tell anyone else. I wasn’t ashamed – it had felt right to me and Laura, and that’s what was important – but I just didn’t want to deal with the judgment.

When Ben was ready to stop breastfeeding at ten months, I didn’t consider carrying on just for my granddaughters. I knew this chapter of my life was ending, and I felt a mixture of sadness and pride. It wasn’t until years later that I gained further insight into why I was so unruffled by doing something others considered to be far from the norm.

Aged 45, after a lifetime of feeling like I’d failed to act quite as society expected me to, I was diagnosed with autism.

But while I now have a better understanding as to why my behaviour and others’ may not always align, I still stand by what I did. After all, why is it deemed OK to feed a child cow’s milk, or a formula designed by chemists, but not milk from a relative?

Now 49, I feel I’ve enjoyed a privilege most never experience, and look back on those moments with my grandchildren with joy. We shared something amazing, and whatever others think, I don’t regret it for a second.

AS TOLD TO KATE GRAHAM