Patricia Anderson straightens the papers in front of her and puts them into a manila folder before handing them to Amy across her kitchen table. “I’ll send these to you electronically as well, but these will be your hard copies. Do you have any questions?”
Amy sucks in air, making a sound of astonishment. “So everything’s done?”
Patricia nods, completing her thought. “All of your paperwork is in order. Your training is done. Your home is lovely. The names that you provided gave you raving recommendations, as did Gloria and, as far as I’m concerned, if Gloria recommends someone as a foster parent, then I listen.”
Amy sighs. “Suddenly, I’m nervous.”
Patricia smiles, soft lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes. She’s been a social worker for longer than she hasn’t. It has been her life and her passion. “The nerves will go away. Trust me.”
“You’ve met with other nervous potential foster parents?”
Patricia laughs. “I was one of those nervous potential foster parents! My husband Mark and I had lost our son.” She doesn’t allow Amy time to respond and says, “The grief took me…” She stops, trying to find a sentence to cobble together but can’t, shaking her head. “It nearly destroyed me. It was destroying my marriage and we were nearly done but, thankfully, there were two little girls in different circumstances who needed parents, and God knew that we needed them.”
“How old were they?”
Patricia smiles, pulling out her phone to show a picture. “Five and two. Emily’s ten now and Mia is seven, but I was a wreck those first few nights with Emily.”
Amy is careful how she phrases this next question. “Was there ever any difference in your love for—”
Patricia answers before Amy finishes. “At first, yes, because I was their social worker. I loved each of them as one of ‘my kids,’” she says, making air quotes with her fingers. “I love all the kids that I help. I’m very protective. They’re ‘my kids.’ But once they were in my home, something changed. They were no longer ‘my kids,’ they were MY kids. Not all foster parents feel that way, because they know that they are fostering a child until he or she can be returned to the home of his or her own parent or parents. But that wasn’t the situation for either of our girls. There wasn’t a home to return to for either of them, and once Emily and Mia were in our home, I couldn’t think of them going anywhere else because they were mine. They were ours.” She shifts in her chair and raps her fingers on the table. “Are you looking to simply foster a child that will be reunited with the biological parent, or are you thinking of something lasting?”
Amy scratches her head, shaking it as she does. “When I started all this I thought of it as being something temporary but over the last couple of weeks I’ve been feeling…” She searches for the words. “I’ve been feeling that I’m ready to be a mom. I was ready several years ago but then the rug got pulled out from under me and I put all those thoughts on the back burner.”
“But now the flames are burning higher and the water’s about to boil over.”
Amy laughs. “Exactly! I just don’t know if I’m really ready.”
“No parent is ever really ready but I’ve met a lot of parents who aren’t as ready as you. Any child would feel safe and blessed to be in this home with you.”
Amy pushes a crumb onto the floor, swiping her hand back and forth over the tabletop in front of her. “I know there are kids at Glory’s Place in foster care and if one of them ever needs a home I’d like to help.”
Patricia stands, gathering her coat and purse from the back of the chair. “If a child becomes available, you’ll be one of the first to know.”
Amy walks her to the front door, opening it. “Thank you so much, Patricia. You’ve made this feel very easy for me.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Amy waves as Patricia gets into her car; she seems to feel her heart pressing against her ribs. She closes the front door and surveys her living room. Before long, there will be a child sharing this space with her. She moves down the hall to the spare bedroom and stands inside the doorway, looking inside. The small antique desk her parents gave her sits on the opposite wall; a vase of dried flowers and a Tiffany-style banker’s lamp are positioned just so on the top. The lines of the maple chest of drawers and bed are clean and simple, as are the white comforter and pillows. Everything is neat, tidy, and orderly, much like the life Amy has created for herself in the last six years. She has managed to put together an existence without the intrusion of heartache and kept any sort of untidiness outside her door. She knows that once she opens her home to a child, her heart will be invaded once again and life will be messy, sometimes very messy. She walks into the room, pondering the thought.