Angels in Our Hearts. Rosie Lewis

know what a raspberry feels like, just because they’re a ward of the state?

      Worn out by the excitement, she begins to grizzle so I wrap her in a blanket and gather her in my arms, settling the two of us on the sofa. She lies for a few moments looking up at me as I hold her snugly. Watching her eyes flicker, my head drops back and for a few minutes we doze together.

      The telephone jerks me awake. Irritated, I reach for the cordless phone with my spare hand.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hi, Rosie.’ It’s Desmond. He hesitates for a moment and I tense, sensing bad news. Complaints against foster carers are common, particularly when mothers see another woman cradling their own newborn baby.

      ‘Oh dear. Go on, what’s up?’

      ‘The local authority is moving Sarah on to other carers, quite soon. Next week in fact.’

      ‘Moving her? Why?’ I glance down at her peaceful face, feeling suddenly angry. I had heard of children moving foster placements for financial reasons. Social services make an effort to place their looked after children with locally registered carers but if they are full or they refuse a placement, agency carers are employed. If a local authority carer then becomes available, the child is sometimes moved on, even if they’ve been settled somewhere for a considerable amount of time. I close my hand around the receiver so tightly that the muscles in my arm begin to ache.

      ‘Don’t worry, it’s not what you think. The local authority have a couple who have just passed panel and are desperate to adopt a baby. They registered specifically for that reason. The sooner she’s settled, the better.’

      I feel as if a cold band is clamping around my heart. I know he’s right, of course. It will be wonderful for Sarah to get the inevitable move over with while she’s so young, so that the new couple are all she’ll ever remember. It’s a system that has worked well in the US and I had read somewhere that various local authorities were trialling the procedure in the UK. The couple risk heartbreak if the local authority is unsuccessful in their application for a full care order, but if Sarah becomes available for adoption, she’ll be settled in a permanent home much sooner than is usual.

      I have to wait a moment for the constriction in my chest to ease before I manage to whisper, ‘OK, that’s fine.’ Leaning down, I touch Sarah’s warm forehead with my nose, taken aback by the speed events are taking. Ending the call, I sit listening to the sounds of Sarah’s even breathing and chastise myself for not managing to put my own feelings aside.

      Ten a.m. the next morning I’m sitting on a fabric-covered couch in the local authority reception with Sarah fast asleep in my arms, watching the comings and goings of council employees. Sarah’s breathing is deep and regular and, as I watch her, I feel my own heartbeat slowing down.

      After a few minutes Sue appears. ‘We’re ready for you.’ She crooks her finger. Obediently I follow her down a corridor decorated with children’s drawings and several posters featuring smiling children above the words, ‘Could you foster?’

      Sue stops outside interview room two. From inside I can hear low voices and my heart beats in my throat. Meeting prospective adopters feels almost as nerve wracking as embarking on a blind date. Preparing for the worst and clenching Sarah so tightly to me that my jagged nails dig into my palms, I’m pleasantly surprised when Sue throws the door open on a young couple in their mid-thirties. Perched nervously in seats positioned side by side, they release hands and look up, smiling widely. Most adopters are in their early forties at least and I’m pleased they’re a bit younger than average. It means that they may go on to adopt again in the future. It’s a comfort to think that Sarah might not be an only child.

      ‘Kate, Paul.’ Sue waves her hands through the space between us. ‘This is Rosie Lewis, Sarah’s foster carer.’

      The couple rise in unison, both proffering their hands to shake. Shifting Sarah into my left arm I offer my right, reassured by the firmness of their grip. They meet my eyes and smile warmly. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Kate says, her eyes shining as she glances down at Sarah. I like them immediately.

      ‘Please.’ Sue gestures for us to sit down and wastes no time getting to the point. ‘We went to panel this morning. It was unanimously agreed that Paul and Kate are a perfect match for Sarah. So, we’ll be able to get her settled into her new home for Christmas.’

      ‘That’s wonderful news,’ I hear myself say, gulping down the rising emotion in my throat. Meeting her new parents brings home the inevitability of our own little separation. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

      Kate sits with one leg crossed over the other, jiggling her foot. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, nodding vigorously and turning to smile at her husband. Their eyes burn with passion as I place their future daughter in her arms.

      Paul leans over and pulls the shawl down to reveal Sarah’s face. She is awake now, gazing up at the new faces with interest. Kate holds out her finger and Sarah reaches out, clasping it as she did mine on the day I first met her. Paul’s eyes fill with tears. The couple exchange glances and smile at each other. I turn away, feeling like an unwelcome intruder spying on a private moment.

      ‘Perhaps you could tell Paul and Kate a bit more about Sarah,’ Sue prompts, an unusual gentleness in her tone. ‘Give them an idea of her routine and what’s she’s like to care for.’

      ‘She’s lovely, so lovely,’ I say, embarrassed to find my voice cracking.

      Sue’s habitually sour, downturned expression softens. She reaches out and rubs my arm, a brisk but comforting gesture. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude at the unexpected show of sympathy.

      In the days leading up to the handover I find myself talking to Sarah all the time, trying to hold back my nervousness at letting her go, knowing I’ll probably continue to rock for days after she has left my arms.

      The night before she is due to leave I sleep uneasily, tossing and turning. My dreams are confused and when I wake in the morning I feel the same flat sadness of the last few days but decide against trying to shrug it off. It might help me to stay calm, distanced.

      When I pick Sarah up from her crib at 6:30 a.m. she is wide awake and gazing around. She catches my eye and smiles so adoringly that my stomach lurches with a longing to keep her. Warming some milk, I realise it’s the last bottle I’ll ever give her. She seems to sense this, frowning in puzzlement as she sucks. I sing through my lullaby repertoire, to give her nice memories to take to her new home.

      After her bottle Emily and Jamie ask to give her a short cuddle. They both seem reserved this morning and I feel another little stab of guilt, hoping these endings don’t haunt them when they’re older. I remind myself that fostering has helped them to develop a strong sense of empathy and kindness.

      ‘Good luck, Sarah,’ they call out before leaving for school. Tonight I plan to take them for a pizza as a reward for being part of a fostering family. It will be good to be out; the house seems to echo with an unwelcome silence for days after a placement has ended, especially a much-loved one. Anyway, Emily and Jamie deserve the important part they play in children’s lives to be acknowledged.

      Forcing a bright smile as I wave the children off, I lay Sarah in her crib, watching as she slowly turns her head from side to side. Her eyes drift to the twinkling lights twisted around a miniature Christmas tree on the hearth. Transfixed, her tiny lips form the shape of an ‘O’. Minutes later her tiny fingers uncurl and she drops off into a relaxed sleep, reminding me how far she’s come in a short period of time. Six weeks ago she was tucked up tightly in a ball of drug-induced pain.

      While she’s resting I pack her memory box, filling it with items that her adoptive parents will hopefully keep safe for her. I label everything carefully, including a blanket that her birth mother was thoughtful enough to buy before she went into labour and a little pink rabbit with a rattle inside, a present from her grandmother. Little details that may mean so much to her when she’s older. I’ve also written her a life-story book filled with photos of our family, so that she has a record of where she spent her first few