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As a family, we’d talked about that phone call all evening, trying to read anything and everything into John’s few scraps of information about the child he wanted us to take on. What could the boy have done to end up having had twenty failed placements in just six short years? It seemed unfathomable. Just how damaged and unfosterable could he be? But since we knew almost nothing, it was pointless to speculate. We’d know all that soon enough, wouldn’t we?
Not that, come morning, there was much more to know. John had arrived and, as soon as I’d made us all coffee, he got straight down to the business of telling us.
‘It was a neighbour who alerted social services initially,’ he explained. ‘He’d been to their house several times, it seems, begging for food.’
We remained silent, while John sat and read from his notes. ‘Family Support followed it up, by all accounts, but it seems the mother managed to convince them that she was coping okay – that she had just been through a bad patch at the time. Justin himself, it seems, corroborated this – certainly managing to convince them that the right course of action was to let things ride for a while. And then two months later, emergency services were called out to the family home by a neighbour. Seemed he’d been playing with some matches and burned the house down. Apparently the mother had left him and his two younger brothers –’
‘Younger brothers? How old were they?’ I asked him.
John checked his notes again. ‘Let me see … two and three when it happened. And they’d all apparently been left alone in the house while she went off to visit a boyfriend. Seems the family dog died in the fire as well.’
Mike and I exchanged glances, but neither of us spoke. We could both see there was more for him to tell us.
John glanced at us both, then continued. ‘It was after that that the mother agreed to have him taken into care. Under a voluntary care order – seems no fight was put up there about holding on to him; she was happy to let him go and accept a support package for the younger two – and he was placed in a children’s home in Scotland, with contact twice monthly agreed. But it broke down after a year. It seems the people at the home felt they could do nothing for him. He was apparently’ – he lowered his eyes to check on the exact wording – ‘deemed angry, aggressive, something of a bully, and unable to make and keep friends. They felt he needed to be placed in a family situation for him to make any sort of progress.’
He leaned back in his chair then, while we took things in. The language used could have been describing an older child, certainly – an angry teenager, most definitely – but a five-year-old child? That seemed shocking to me. He was still just a baby.
‘But he didn’t,’ I said finally.
John shook his head. ‘No, sadly, he didn’t. Because of his behaviour, he’s been nowhere for more than a few months – no more than a few weeks, in some cases – since then. He’s physically attacked several of his previous carers and has simply worn the rest of them out. So there we are,’ he said, closing his file and straightening the papers within it. ‘Twenty placements and we’re all out of options.’ He looked at both of us in turn now. ‘So. What do you think?’
And now here I was, just a few days before Christmas, and this child, this ‘unfosterable’ eleven-year-old child who’d burned down his home at the tender age of just five, was about to become our responsibility.
I walked down the stairs just as I could see a shadow approaching in the glass of the front door. I noticed how smoothly my hand slid down the banister, and smiled. I’d been cleaning and polishing like a mad woman all morning, flicking my duster manically here, there and everywhere, and moving all sorts of stuff around the place. Mike, bless him, had been getting on my nerves since we’d got up, assuming, with his man-wisdom, that since I was obviously so stressed, that he’d be doing me a favour by anticipating my every next move, and being one step behind me at all times.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I’d snapped at him, not half an hour earlier. ‘How can I get anything done in this place with you on my tail all the time?’
He’d shot off then, probably grateful to get out from under my feet. But he’d been right. I was so nervous that I actually felt physically sick. I’d never been so nervous about a new job, ever. Probably because this was going to be like no other new job. Because it wasn’t just a job, it was a whole lifestyle. This was not nine till five, this was twenty-four-seven. Gone would be our cosy evenings in, cuddled on the sofa, just me and Mike together, and gone would be the lazy weekends we’d begun to start enjoying since Riley had moved out and Kieron had turned nineteen. There was no turning back, though. I’d said yes. I was committed. He’s only eleven, I kept telling myself sternly. He’s been through some bad times. It was just the lack of knowing what that was so worrying.
I reached the bottom of the staircase just as Mike reached the door. I took a deep breath. This was it, then.
‘Hi Justin!’ I said brightly as the door opened to reveal him, accompanied by Harrison Green, Justin’s social worker, who’d brought him along for our initial meeting the previous Tuesday. I hadn’t been sure about Harrison when I first met him; he seemed a scruffy sort of character to be a social worker, to my mind. In his mid-fifties, he had a mop of unruly, greying hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in a long while, and a generally unkempt air about him. But perhaps that was what long-term social work could do to you. I’d got little sense of what Justin himself was like on that occasion, other than that he was surly, a little awkward around us and a little lacking in all the normal social graces. Offered a biscuit, for example, and he’d immediately pounced on the plate, taking as many in one hand as he could get his fingers round, and immediately stashing half in his trouser pockets. But his lack of etiquette was hardly surprising given his situation, was it? So I wasn’t concerned about such small, trifling details. Not at all. Those sorts of things could all be learned. It was the deeper stuff, the psychological damage, that most concerned me. Could the manifestations of that damage be unlearned? That was what was key.
One thing that had happened was that we’d been given more background to chew over. While Mike had been showing Justin around our home that day, Harrison had taken the opportunity to fill me in on more of the details of his own.
‘The truth is that he’s attacked a number of his carers,’ he’d told me gravely. ‘With both fists and with kitchen knives, apparently.’ He’d paused then. ‘He’s also threatened to take his life on a number of occasions, and did once actually try to hang himself. From some goalposts on the school playing fields.’
I’d listened in shock, mentally storing everything up so I could recount it all back to Mike later. It was then, too, that Harrison had passed on the news that Justin seemed to have a particular aversion to women with black hair. But he’d also been positive about the potential for his future progress. Justin’s current situation had been as much to do with the carers as him, it seemed. According to Harrison, at any rate, they were too inexperienced to deal with Justin’s refusal to accept boundaries. And boundaries were what he needed more than anything.
I’d not been convinced, at the time, that Harrison had really thought we’d be any better. He had a world-weary air about him that seemed to suggest otherwise. John’s words about last-chance saloon came flooding back. Were Mike and I considered to be Justin’s? Might our first placement be already doomed to failure?
I tried to dismiss the idea, telling myself I was being silly. We were last-chance-saloon fosterers – that was the whole point of the programme we were there to implement. But looking at Harrison now I sensed little had changed. That Harrison wasn’t holding out a lot of hope, deep down. Just needed somewhere to place the child, and fast.
‘Come on in,’ Mike said warmly, standing aside to let them all enter. Justin did so with a fair degree of confidence compared with his last visit, I noticed, pulling Harrison along behind him into the living room.
‘Is that all he’s got?’ I asked Harrison, following them, and gesturing to Justin’s single battered suitcase. Yes it was big, but it still seemed very little in the scheme of things. Could it really contain all he had in the whole world?
‘Um … er, yes,’ Harrison replied, looking slightly flustered by my question. He seemed preoccupied with an agenda of his own.
And he was. ‘I don’t have much time, I’m afraid,’ he told us. ‘We’re going to have to get the paperwork sorted out quickly, as I have to be somewhere else pretty soon … but you’re alright,’ he said, turning to Justin, who’d now sat down on the sofa. ‘Looking forward to it, son, aren’t you?’
Justin nodded, and managed to come up with a wonky half-smile. ‘Is it okay if I put the telly on?’ he asked me.
‘Course,’ I said, happy to see he really did seem okay, and so much more relaxed than he’d been with me last time. I smiled, feeling the tension drain away from me a little too. ‘Just not too loud, though, okay?’
Harrison, on the other hand, was making me cross. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen to complete the forms?’ he asked me, visibly anxious to be making a move out through the door. It was as if he really couldn’t wait to leave.
‘Only one suitcase,’ I persisted, as I led him through to the kitchen, while Mike went to show Justin how to work the TV remotes. ‘I’d have thought a child who’d been in care as long as he has would have amassed loads and loads of stuff.’ I did, too. This wasn’t just whimsical thinking on my part. One of the things we’d covered during training was about kids in care and their various possessions. Kids coming straight from a bad home environment often have very little. Neglected and abused they often have owned very few things, and, in many cases, what little they do have tends to be hung on to by their families. Children already in care, on the other hand, do have possessions, often lots of them, because carers are given funds with which to buy them.
Harrison seemed irritated at being sidetracked from his paperwork. ‘Yes, well,’ he said, shuffling them. ‘Justin doesn’t really do “looking after things”. Hence he travels light. So, then. Here are the care plans …’
We went through them, and it was almost as if we were purchasing a car and he was the harried salesman handing us the log book, the deal done. I offered drinks but, no, he really did have to get away, and to be honest I was happy to see the back of him. His attitude towards the whole business of handing over Justin was getting up my nose every bit as much as his crumpled-up suit and musty smell.
Justin came into the kitchen immediately Harrison had left, his expression looking relaxed for the first time since we’d met. He was quite a stocky boy. Tall for his age, too. I’m five feet tall and he was only half a head shorter. He had thick, coarse blond hair, which seemed to grow upwards from his scalp, rather like a character in a cartoon who’s just been electrocuted. And he was smiling now, which immediately softened his stony features. He wasn’t an unattractive boy when he wasn’t on his guard. One job, I mused, would be to work on that smile of his. And, hopefully, soon see much more of it.
‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ he said to me, matter of factly. ‘Is it nearly dinner time yet?’
I looked at the kitchen clock. It was only just coming up to eleven-thirty in the morning. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I suppose we could always have an early dinner, if you’re hungry …’
He shook his head ‘Oh, I’m not. I just want to know what time we’re having it,’ he answered, in the same straightforward tone. ‘Oh, and what we’re having.’
‘What we’re having?’
Now he nodded at me. ‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you can hang on just for a little bit longer, I was going to phone my daughter Riley and my son Kieron – they’re both really looking forward to meeting you, Justin. And we’ll just be having a pasta bake, or something.’
‘Twelve, then?’ Now Justin did begin to look a bit flustered. ‘And will it be pasta bake? Or might it be something else?’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Mike, once I’d reassured Justin that, yes, it would be twelve and it would definitely be pasta bake, and, satisfied now, he’d gone back to the living room. Mike chuckled. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t offer him a menu!’
It was good to hear my husband’s familiar and reassuring words – the sound of sanity, the sound of normality. Probably just what this child needed in his life. But, just to be on the safe side I set to work on our unexpectedly early lunch anyway, while Mike went to call Kieron and Riley and tell them the coast was clear. We’d arranged for them to come only once Justin was safely with us, in order that we didn’t overwhelm him.
As I chopped onions, I could hear Mike in the hall chuckling some more. ‘Just make sure you ask for pasta!’ he was telling them.
You’d be a fool as a foster carer, particularly our kind of foster carer, to let yourself be lulled into a false sense of security, but for a minute or two after Mike had finished talking to the kids, I felt hopeful that this would all work out well. Okay, so Justin seemed to have some anxieties about food, but then, after all those years in care and going from place to place, it would be strange if he hadn’t picked up a few foibles along the way. I could see why food would have been something he’d possibly have to fight over in the different hierarchies of children and pubescents that existed in every new children’s home he was billeted in.
But it wasn’t the only foible he had, of course. I’d forgotten about the one we had already been warned about.
She’s gorgeous, my daughter, and I love her to bits. She’s welcoming and friendly, with a really bright personality, and had been so enthusiastic about the whole idea of us fostering. So when she and Kieron arrived she seemed as anxious as we were to make Justin feel like he belonged. When we were seated, the promised pasta bake steaming in the centre of the table, she sat down beside him and leaned towards him conspiratorially. ‘Welcome to the mad house,’ she said, grinning.
She then made a move, as if she was about to ruffle his hair, but even before she could lift up her hand to do so, Justin had slammed himself against his chair back and given her a really stony stare.
‘Sorry, mate,’ she said, shocked. ‘I was just being friendly’, but Justin ignored her, leaned forwards again and helped himself to a large portion of the pasta. I made a mental note that in future perhaps I’d need to serve the portions myself, in the kitchen.
We ate in an uncomfortable silence for some minutes, and I watched my daughter’s face begin to redden. She was clearly so embarrassed and my heart really went out to her, and Mike, noticing too, tried to lighten the atmosphere by engaging the boys in conversation about football.
Justin wasn’t interested, though, and continued to eat in silence, a silence becoming more noisy and intrusive by the minute as we all digested what had happened.
‘Is David coming round?’ I asked Riley eventually.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not till tomorrow. He’s working today …’ She tailed off because Justin was staring at her once again. ‘David’s my boyfriend,’ she explained to him. ‘We live just round the corner. He’s looking forward to meeting you, too, Justin.’
But once again it seemed Riley was the devil incarnate. ‘What time is tea, Casey?’ he asked me, ignoring her. ‘And what are we having to eat?’
I could feel Mike begin to bristle beside me. ‘Justin, Riley was speaking to you, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘And we don’t know about tea yet. We’re only just having dinner.’
‘It’s okay, Dad,’ Riley said. ‘It’s fine. It really is. I’m always quiet around people I don’t know too.’
Justin scowled at her and once again turned to face me. ‘Is it okay if I take my stuff to my room now?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Mike. ‘I’ll come up and check on you in a bit.’
‘Oh, my God! How rude is that kid?’ Kieron observed, once we’d heard Justin’s tread on the stairs. My lovely Kieron, who finds it impossible to see bad in anybody. He looked at his elder sister. ‘He sure doesn’t seem to like you, Riley!’
Riley frowned. ‘It’s probably just because of my black hair.’
‘Your black hair? Why?’
She glanced in my direction. ‘Mum told me. He’s got this thing, apparently. Has this thing about hating women with black hair.’
Kieron glanced at me too, looking shocked. The word ‘hate’ didn’t really exist for him. ‘I know,’ I said, having completely forgotten all about that. Of course! ‘But we’ve also got to remember this is probably a bit too much for him. We have to be patient and give him a chance to settle in.’
Mike got up and began clearing the plates. He was shaking his head as he went out to the kitchen.
While Mike manfully tackled the washing up, I went outside with Riley for a cigarette. I’d been trying to cut down, in preparation for giving up, but right now I really needed a quick nicotine boost. I reassured my daughter that things could only improve; that it would take time, but that once we got to know Justin a little better it would all become easier and less stressful for us all.
She didn’t look convinced – Riley was someone who liked to be liked and I could see that, even though she understood about the black-hair thing, she was still shocked and confused by Justin’s very obvious rejection of her – so I just hoped what I was saying would turn out to be true.
I could still hear plenty of banging and clattering in the kitchen, so I accepted a sneaky second cigarette, feeling the strain of the morning start to ebb away. Justin’s food issues, at least, were something we could definitely address, and as for his thing about black hair – well, I was sure once he got to know us as real people, that would lessen too.
I was just stubbing out the cigarette when Kieron came to the back door to find me.
‘Mum!’ he said, looking shocked. ‘You have to come!’
I started. ‘Come where? What’s the matter?’
‘Dad’s just been up to check on Justin and …’ He seemed completely stuck for words. ‘And his room is … well …’ He frowned at me, looking anxious. ‘Come on. Just come up and see for yourself.’
Chapter 2
I followed Kieron up the stairs, Riley close behind me, wondering what on earth could have happened. We turned the corner of the landing to see Mike standing speechless in the doorway to Justin’s bedroom. He moved out of the way so Riley and I could look into the room.
It was almost unrecognisable, and I really couldn’t take it in. The lovely room I’d so carefully prepared for Justin’s arrival over several days – the place I’d planned so minutely so it would feel welcoming and homely and a safe place of refuge – now looked exactly like a prison cell. There was a long, low cupboard, with some drawers in, under the window, which I had covered with a set of books, a few football figurines, some jigsaw puzzles and a craft box I’d found for him, which contained glue, felt and fabric, sticky paper and gummed stars. Now every one of these items had been hidden out of sight – I couldn’t even work out where he’d put them. The bookcase had been similarly dealt with. I was so shocked, for this had been in some ways the room’s centrepiece; we’d painted it ourselves, in a pattern of red and white blocks, and glued on lots of black and white paper footballs. We’d then filled it with yet more things we thought he’d like – more books, some soft toys, pens and pencils and so on. But it too had now disappeared. He’d covered the whole thing by draping it completely with the blue fleece throw I had bought for the bed. The round football rug had been removed and, I presumed, hidden – I certainly couldn’t see it – and the array of fluffy cushions had disappeared from the bed. He’d also closed the curtains so the room was in darkness, making it feel really gloomy and depressing.
In the middle of all this sat Justin, on the bed. He had his knees pulled up close to his chest, and was playing on a hand-held computer game he had resting against them; one that he’d obviously brought with him. Most compelling about the scene though was that he seemed completely indifferent to us all crowded there, open mouthed, in the doorway, and just carried on playing the game, his face partly obscured by the controller, his fingers flying over the controls.
‘Justin,’ I gasped at him. ‘What have you done to your room, love?’ I waited, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up. ‘Hey, love,’ I persisted. ‘Where’s everything gone?’
Now he calmly moved the console enough so that I could see his whole face. ‘It’s my room, innit?’ he answered coldly. ‘And this is how I like it.’
It was then that I properly noticed that not everything had gone. He might have stripped the room, but there were two notable exceptions. The TV and DVD player hadn’t been banished. So it wasn’t a case of total, self-imposed deprivation, then.
It was that – that one very specific omission from what he’d done – that made me cross. In fact, all at once, it made me really upset. I’d spent hours agonising over that bloody room and days and days shopping for it and decorating it and everything. And for what? Just to have it trashed by this smug-faced, overweight and downright rude eleven-year-old. It made me see red. I wasn’t happy at all.
Mike, perhaps sensing this, placed a hand lightly on my shoulder and ushered me gently back out to the landing, signalling at the same time for Kieron and Riley to go back downstairs. ‘Right, Justin,’ he said mildly, ‘you just come down when you’re ready, okay? Or if you need anything …’
I was even more furious, hearing Mike say that. I marched back down the stairs and stomped into the kitchen, rounding on Mike as he followed me in there. ‘“If he needs anything!”’ I jabbed a finger towards the ceiling. ‘Have you seen that bloody room up there?’ I just couldn’t take it in. I spread my palms in exasperation. ‘Why would he do that?’
I could see the kids braced a little, in readiness for the rant they could see I was building up to. ‘I can’t believe it, Mike!’ I fumed. ‘I really can’t! The ungrateful little …’
‘Casey!’ Mike had raised his voice to my level now. ‘Let’s not forget what we’re dealing with here!’ He looked hard at me. ‘And let’s try to remember where’s he’s come from, okay? For God’s sake, love, If he were Little Lord Fauntleroy, he wouldn’t be in bleeding care, now, would he?’
I could still see the kids, out of the corner of my eye, now stifling giggles at their father’s analogy. And suddenly, I felt all my anger drain away – almost as quickly and completely as it had come. I started laughing, and the kids did as well, laughing harder and harder, till the tears began streaming down all of our cheeks. It was one of those surreal situations where you really think you’re going to cry and the next you find you’re laughing hysterically. There would be many more laugh-or-you’ll-cry situations down the line, but right now I didn’t know that. All I knew was that we’d crossed some sort of threshold; that, as a family, we were in completely new territory.
Mike wasn’t laughing. In fact, quite the opposite. He was looking at the three of us as if we’d all gone completely mad. ‘Sorry, love,’ I spluttered at him. ‘It’s so not funny, I know that. But I can’t help it. Really, I can’t.’
His face softened a bit then. ‘I know,’ he said, nodding towards upstairs. ‘But maybe pipe down just a little, eh? We don’t want him to hear us and think we’re all laughing at his expense, do we? I don’t think that would help the situation any. Do you?’
‘You’re right,’ I said, pulling myself together with an effort. ‘Come on, kids, pipe down, like Dad says.’ And, bless them, they duly did.
‘You know what I think?’ suggested Riley, crossing the kitchen and reaching for the kettle. ‘I wonder if he’s determined not to enjoy his time with us, and him doing what he did to his bedroom is his way of sort of making the point.’
Mike nodded. ‘I think you might have hit the nail on the head there,’ he agreed. ‘And I also wonder – given what we do know about him – if he’s so used to having his possessions taken away from him for bad behaviour that he prefers not to get attached to any in the first place?’
I walked across to join Riley and get some mugs down from the cupboard. ‘Well, whatever the reason,’ I said. ‘It’s strange. And so sad.’ I shook my head and glanced across at Mike. ‘And I think this is going to be a lot harder than we expected.’
My family’s temporary silence spoke volumes. I’d been right. We all knew it. This was going to be hard. Not necessarily the day-to-day looking after the child – I could do all that with my eyes shut. It was just the impact of having this small stranger living with us, among us. One who we didn’t understand. That was hard.
I of all people should really have known what we’d gotten into. It had been barely two weeks since I’d left my last job, even though it suddenly felt a lifetime ago. And prior to that job I had worked in a huge organisation, running self-development courses for disadvantaged teens. Young people who teetered on the edge of society for various reasons, helping them to take some control over their lives and to make positive changes to empower them. I had spent the last three years of my working life as a behaviour manager at our huge local secondary school, running the unit for children with behavioural difficulties. These were the sort of children that almost every school has, sadly. The ones that just don’t fit in well, for a whole host of reasons. The ones that disrupt classes, taunt teachers, cause problems for themselves and everyone else. The sort of children, in consequence, that everybody wants to pass on to someone else. And I’d loved it, loved pretty much every minute of it, actually. I loved that I could do something positive for the sort of kids whose home lives were so tough that school was often their only safe haven, which made it doubly important that they could be helped to stay there. Because the bottom line was that if it weren’t for units such as the one I’d worked in, these were the children who were most likely to end up excluded altogether – which would be the worst outcome of all for them.
But it was doing that – connecting with these sorts of children – that had, by chance, led me to this whole new career choice. When I’d started at the school, my job had been reasonably straightforward: I’d be responsible for two or three children at a time, whom I’d supervise from my own office. With only a small number of children, I could really get through to them. And more often than not, I found, it was this close relationship – this one-on-one attention – that really made the difference in their behaviour. Away from their peers and the demands and anxieties of the classroom, they would often open up with me about their problems. My favourite thing of all was to take them to McDonald’s. There was something about sitting in a fast-food restaurant, over a burger, that seemed to help make them slow down, take stock and, most of all, trust me – enough to let me really try to help them.
But life being what it is, and budgets being budgets, my job had started growing at an incredible rate. By the time of my leaving, I had fifty children on my list, and had had to take over a classroom in which to house them – one that was swiftly re-christened ‘The Unit’. Here, the children would be divided into three distinct groups: the ones who were generally disruptive and uncooperative; the ones who tended to be bullied and friendless; and then the third group – the ones I classed as being the ‘unknown quantities’. These were the really sad, quiet kids. The ones who wouldn’t or couldn’t participate or interact. These were the obvious victims of poverty or neglect, and it really impacted on their learning.
It was a big job, and I had the use of teaching assistants when they were available, but, as is the case in most schools, they very seldom were, being in chronically short supply. Instead, I would often have to ask volunteer sixth-form students if they’d come along and give me a hand. Then, together with whatever willing helpers I could get, I’d work with each group separately throughout the day.
The day itself could throw up all sorts of challenges. I might start by seeing a group of kids that were targets for bullies, sitting with them and discussing ways in which they could build up their self-esteem; we’d also look at what action they should take if they found themselves in a vulnerable situation. These kids seemed to thrive best when we did team-building activities or they were given responsibilities around the school.
Next, I might have a group of kids that were known to be bullies; these, in contrast, I would talk to about the results of their actions and the impact they had on the kids they bullied. I did a lot of empathy work with these kinds of students, and tried to get them to really understand the emotional damage they caused. Usually, I found that the bullies had unresolved problems of their own, and when this was the case we were very proactive, with both extra support and interventions being put in place.
As time went on, I’d also begun spending more and more time working with some of the parents, as well, in a kind of unofficial ‘super-nanny’ capacity. This increasingly meant doing home visits, sometimes well into the evening, which was well outside my contracted professional responsibilities – not to mention time-consuming – and so was becoming a bit draining in itself.
All in all, my ‘unit’ had fast become the victim of its own success. The school community is like any other – if something’s happening, good or bad, word quickly spreads. And, in this case, it was a regular topic of conversation in the staff room, with all the teachers agreeing how much more pleasant life had become since this disruptive child or that disruptive child was regularly removed from their lessons. As a consequence, new teachers were regularly accosting me and, me being a softie, I could never say no.
It became increasingly difficult, therefore, to help any of the kids in the way I really wanted to help them, and little by little it began to become obvious to me that helping lots of children, just a little, here and there, wasn’t the best use of my time or experience. Wouldn’t it be better to concentrate on making a real difference by helping one child at a time, but in a big way?
And it wasn’t just this that had led Mike and I to fostering. We had already had hands-on experience of the realities of challenging parenting because Kieron had a mild form of Asperger’s syndrome, which meant he was just a little different from other kids.
