I was driving when I received my first phone call about you. In subsequent conversations, I learned you were living in a group home meant for older boys, and the goal was to find somewhere more suitable for a child. Being at home with your mom was unfortunately not an option; among other things, you’d already been harmed by someone living there. 

By the time I started visiting you, plans for us to connect had been loosely made, postponed and re-made…multiple times. In hindsight, that pattern may have been a kind of foreshadowing.  

We had one of your favourite meals the first time I came to see you: fettucine alfredo with chicken. I awkwardly tried to find common ground, and you were generous in trying to teach me games on your Playstation. At one point – when my lacklustre skills were getting the better of our on-screen characters – you stopped yourself in the middle of an impatient reaction and tried to reassure me it was going to be okay. 

On a different scale, I remember wishing I could do the same for you. 

Beyond the Playstation, you are a whiz at Lego and anything mechanical. When we visited the science centre, I watched you strip wires at one of the exhibits (to a nearby visitor’s dismay) and re-fashion them into a working circuit. When I asked how you knew to do that, you described a long list of other things you know how to build. 

On the same visit, we saw another display that made you curiously wonder, “what are those?” And that’s how I found myself explaining male and female condoms, while realizing that being a foster parent would mean doing things outside of a typical new-parent’s chronological order. 

Your bed is covered in layers and layers of pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals. One day, when I arrived for a visit before you were dressed, I saw that you still wore one-piece, fleecy pajamas. A boy still young enough to be cuddled, if he lived with safe people who could offer that. 

You told me stories about your friends and the games you remembered playing together. You hadn’t seen those kids in many months, not since you were moved out of your house and neighbourhood. You also missed your dogs, and seemed thrilled to play with mine. On occasions where I’d leave her in the car, you worried that she’d feel excluded from whatever it was that we were doing. 

You found school difficult, even though you liked your teachers. When you couldn’t immediately succeed at something, you became frustrated and hard on yourself. You called yourself names and questioned your worth. 

Later, the various professionals in our lives decided you needed a different kind of home than mine (which is to say: one with a parent whose days are more flexible than my full-time job allows), and I also questioned my own worth a little bit. 

I understood and agreed with the decision, but that doesn’t mean I stopped thinking about you. I regularly wonder how you’re doing, and I still worry whether the change in our plans exacerbated your tendency not to believe in yourself. I recently learned that you ended up somewhere else, and it sounds like a good match.

I hope the parent(s) there are noticing how smart you are, and are appreciating your sense of humour. I hope they are providing love as well as boundaries, and maybe they have a pet for you to snuggle – preferably one that doesn’t try to eat your containers of slime! I hope there are other kids your age to play with in the area. If so, I’m sure they are much better on the Playstation than I was. We didn’t get a chance to live together, Z. But I will remember you always.

In early 2023, I became a licensed foster parent in Alberta. This post and others are meant to share glimpses of what that’s like, while respecting confidentiality. Please note there is a serious need for additional caregivers; anyone interested can learn more here. 

Get future posts directly to your email by subscribing above.