Helpless: A True Short Story. Rosie Lewis

sixteen-year-old daughter lifts Sarah from her seat like a seasoned professional, gently moving the screaming baby to a position over her shoulder and performing an instinctive little dance. Sarah’s cries weaken as her tummy is cradled against her foster sister’s warmth.

      Half an hour later, Emily and Jamie reluctantly head off back to bed, Sarah still bawling as my mother cradles her in her lap. ‘Put a drop of brandy in her bottle, that’ll settle her,’ she suggests.

      ‘I can’t do that, Mum!’ She has no idea of the fall-out if social services even heard those words pass her lips.

      ‘Don’t look like that,’ she says defensively. ‘I’m only joking. Not that it ever did you lot any harm.’

      Rolling my eyes, I swoop the baby up and try to tempt her with a dummy, knowing that sucking will help to ease her stomach cramps. Her lips are as tiny as two petals and surrounded by small blisters, the damage from her harsh screams. Fear grips my insides; what if she refuses to ever stop crying? Her voice is already hoarse. Mum warms one of the glass bottles of milk from the hospital, passing it to me.

      ‘You haven’t slipped any tea in there, have you?’

      ‘Course not, but you used to love a drop of tea,’ she says over the din. ‘Couldn’t get enough of it.’

      Scoffing, I offer Sarah the milk, grateful for the reprieve as she guzzles hungrily. Mum leans over to watch and we exchange smiles at the cute little swallowing noises she makes.

      After taking almost an ounce she falls into an exhausted sleep in my arms, her mouth still attached to the teat. I thank Mum then carefully creep up the stairs, terrified that her eyes will pop open the second I lay her in the hastily constructed crib beside my bed. She whimpers when I withdraw my arms, pulling her legs up to her chest. Even while sleeping, she is clearly in pain.

      Switching off the light, I step out of my clothes and leave them in a discarded heap on the floor. Reaching blindly down to the crib, I pop Sarah’s dummy back in for the umpteenth time and slip quietly under my duvet. It has been a long night and, although tired, I feel a profound sense of fulfilment. Before fostering I didn’t quite understand where I belonged. Listening to Sarah’s gentle whimpers as she snoozes in the crib beside me lifts my heart. It is a matchless sensation, reminding me that I’ve found the job that fits me best. Despite the frustrations, interrupted sleeps and endless paperwork, I wouldn’t have it any other way.