Little Girl Lost: The true story of a broken child

Little Girl Lost: The true story of a broken child
Mia Marconi

The fourth in a series of true short stories from foster carer Mia Marconi.Kira first came to foster carer Mia Marconi’s home on respite care when she was three. She had suffered an unimaginable amount of abuse in her short life. Although she couldn’t tie her shoe laces, she could smash a room to pieces; she fought against everything like a wild cat.At the age of five Kira moved permanently to live with Mia and her family, but by the time she was nine years old the whole family was at breaking point.Mia is the kind of person who won’t give in and believes she can always change things for the better, but try as she might she can’t change Kira. So after six years, with a very heavy heart, she is forced to question whether she can really help this lost and damaged child.Raw, shocking and honest, this short story will shed new light on the role of foster carers, revealing the kind of heartbreaking real life situations carers like Mia Marconi are confronted with every day.

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Copyright (#u67167d2e-d296-5916-aa38-fd1c3f05ffef)

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

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First published by HarperTrueLife 2015

FIRST EDITION

© Mia Marconi and Sally Beck 2015

Cover photo © Shutterstock 2015

Cover layout © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Mia Marconi and Sally Beck assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008105150

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007584406

Version: 2015-03-06

Contents

Cover (#u4be60f67-00b5-5ca7-92d8-60161528185b)

Title Page (#ulink_b3a3b456-65f2-5b96-8a09-7e58679b423b)

Copyright (#ulink_a7bf88ea-e69e-5f2a-bb4a-4a334cd4c9d5)

Chapter One (#ulink_accd65f8-9c02-50c3-8cb8-be7701a257af)

Chapter Two (#ulink_e486bd5f-e790-5ac4-86a2-877a6aa22bff)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Mia Marconi (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

Write for Us (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u67167d2e-d296-5916-aa38-fd1c3f05ffef)

I’ve always said that giving birth to a child does not make you a mother and simply fathering a child does not make you a father. What makes you a mother and a father is what comes next: sitting up all night with your little one while they’re fighting a fever; watching The Lion King on a loop; covering the kitchen with poster paint, sticky tape and cake mix; and endless visits to the park to swing your beautiful son or daughter on the same swing and slide them down the same slide. It’s repetitive and, dare I say it, occasionally boring, but that contact with your child makes them feel loved and valued. It’s called unconditional love, not childcare. But over the years I had begun to realise that not all parents are capable of loving their children, and that those children who enter the world cocooned by the love of their mother and father are the lucky ones.

Kira initially came to live with us for respite care, and she was a child who could not comprehend the meaning of the word ‘love’. Kira could have written a doctorate on rejection, but love was a mystery to her.

She came into our home one Friday night. When you work on the frontline in foster care you very quickly realise that the most urgent calls come on a Friday, usually just as you’re about to head out of the door to take your other kids somewhere, or as you’re snuggling up in bed with a good book. There’s something about having to face the weekend with a demanding child that galvanises people into action.

On this particular Friday I was trying to make dinner, surrounded by chaos. My own five children were demob-happy and already getting into the weekend spirit. ‘Mum, I can’t find my football shorts,’ shouted Alfie. ‘Mum, Ruby’s got my favourite pyjamas.’ ‘No I haven’t, she’s got mine!’ ‘Mum, Jack’s eating my slippers. Mum!’ Sleepovers were being planned and sporting activities discussed at top volume as usual, but through the noise I somehow heard the phone ring.

I picked it up. ‘Can you hear me?’ said a calm, professional voice that sounded vaguely like a social worker. I couldn’t, and took the phone into my quiet room, one that the children knew to stay out of. It was my room, peaceful, with warm red walls and a thick fluffy carpet, and as soon as I entered it I felt instantly peaceful. ‘Sorry, I can now.’