On the day it became clear to me that my time with my foster son is likely coming to an end, the bench under me was hard. The walls surrounding me were grand and white. The ceiling above me was as high as that of a cathedral.
The person making all the decisions in the case of my 4-year-old foster son, BlueJay, seemed miles away from us, miles above us.
He didn’t appear to have read any of the file stacked in front of him. He didn’t know how many birth parents were involved or where BlueJay and his brothers were currently living, despite the fact that they’ve been in their current homes for the past nine months.
All he knew was that a pair of relatives who live several hours away had one final step left before they could be approved as a possible permanent home for the boys.
That was all he needed to know. Or maybe that was all he had time to know.