If Only He’d Told Me: A foster family pushed to the limits

If Only He’d Told Me: A foster family pushed to the limits
Mia Marconi

The third in a series of true short stories from foster carer Mia Marconi.Brody had been on the at-risk register since birth but was only removed from his alcoholic parents when he reached the age of six. Foster carer Mia Marconi was thrilled when he first arrived – a boy the same age as her son.It can be so bewildering for foster children when they arrive. The older ones are usually withdrawn and sullen. The younger ones will be screaming, spitting at you, making themselves sick and throwing themselves on the floor.For Mia, it’s normally her boisterous, happy children who provide the comfort at the beginning, because why should they trust another adult. Children always feel safe and secure when there are other children about. Mia believes it’s through making relationships with other children that they begin to trust adults again. But little did she know that six-year-old Brody was actually taking his anger and frustration out on her son. She quickly begins to realise the heavy price her family has had to pay.

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Copyright (#ubeabbed0-caf6-5781-8b26-c690d6a7e4e5)

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 2014

FIRST EDITION

Text © Mia Marconi and Sally Beck 2014

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Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007584390

Version: 2014-09-17

Contents

Cover (#u5ece8bbf-0448-5340-88d1-3ea56375764a)

Title Page (#ulink_0d7b8ff2-34e3-5adc-9b38-81750a5977cd)

Copyright (#ulink_c65bd776-b55f-5695-951a-bc3ddd9e189a)

Chapter One (#ulink_54693aa3-c662-50a2-90fc-95610227a8ff)

Chapter Two (#ulink_ed0f8a24-13c5-5c13-98a8-4520c316bb26)

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)

Also by Mia Marconi (#litres_trial_promo)

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About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ubeabbed0-caf6-5781-8b26-c690d6a7e4e5)

It was one o’clock in the morning when the phone jerked me out of a deep sleep. I was dreaming that I was walking down the aisle in the most gorgeous wedding dress ever made. It was cream silk overlaid with antique lace. My hair was in a chignon secured with a diamond-studded comb and my bouquet was Lily of the Valley. Martin was waiting for me at the altar with the biggest grin on his face, all four of my girls were dressed as bridesmaids and my son, looking the tidiest he had ever looked, was dressed as a page boy. I felt like a princess and was smiling so hard I was laughing. Then someone rang a bell. I thought it was the priest, but it was the phone ruining my big day.

I had no idea how long it had been ringing but I knew exactly who would be on the end of the line. There was only one organisation that phoned at the weekend and at such an unsociable hour, and that was social services.

‘Good morning, Mia, it’s Roz from social services. How was your sleep?’

I could hear the smile in her voice and had a vision of her face at the end of the line, with her great big grin and warm eyes. She immediately began giggling.

‘Good morning, Roz. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ I said, with a slight note of sarcasm.

She went on to explain that another foster carer had been looking after a six-year-old boy who had gone berserk and smashed up her house. He’d broken everything he could, from the television to the toilet, the goldfish tank to his toys. He’d even smashed his bed and dented the fridge. Could I take him, Roz asked, because his current carer no longer wanted him in the house. He sounded more like a whirlwind than a six-year-old.

Most sane people would have said no, but this pattern of behaviour was a sign that the boy was lost and frightened, and I knew that. I also knew that this was his way of crying out for help. It wasn’t very subtle, perhaps, but nevertheless I knew he needed a friend.

After an awkward silence, I said, ‘How long has he been with her?’ expecting a reply of two weeks.

‘Two years.’

‘Two years! And she wants him out of the house in the middle of a Sunday night?’

‘She’s hysterical, Mia, and can’t stop crying. She wants him to leave now.’