Angels in Our Hearts. Rosie Lewis

I know he will hang around when the adoptive couple have left with their new daughter, to hold my hand and congratulate me on a job well done.

      ‘You’s looking particularly dreadful this morning, Rosie,’ he jokes, aware that any hint at sympathy would set me off. I hoot with laughter, the chuckle catching as a little sob at the back of my throat.

      Some foster carers are able to cope with separation more easily than others. I was hoping that with time I would get better at letting go, but I’m still a work in progress as far as that’s concerned. With babies I find it particularly difficult to keep my distance and not become attached, even though I know my job requires me to maintain a cool professionalism.

      For the next half an hour, while we wait for the new couple to arrive, I busy myself folding Sarah’s freshly washed little clothes and packing them into her new Peter Rabbit suitcase. Desmond chatters away in the background but I hardly notice what he’s saying, I’m so distracted. I try not to look at him, knowing that if I meet his eye my guard will come crashing down.

      With fifteen minutes to pass I sit on the sofa, Sarah in my arms. I take a few deep breaths, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable knotting sensation in my stomach. Wanting some warning before they descend, so that I can gather myself, I fix my eyes on the window, watching the part of the road I can see beyond the front garden.

      Paul and Kate arrive a few minutes earlier than planned, no doubt itching to begin this next exciting phase of their lives. It seems like such a long time since I first met them, even though it was only a week earlier. With older children the handover periods tend to be much longer, but with a baby as young as Sarah it’s over with quickly, with only one or two pre-planned meetings before the big day.

      The atmosphere is a little forced as I fuss around offering them tea and biscuits, my breakfast churning vengefully in my stomach. Kate perches on the edge of the sofa, her mouth working at the edges. Her husband hovers in the doorway, his eyes barely leaving Sarah’s peaceful face as she snoozes in her crib. They’re probably desperate to get away but the formalities have to be attended to, medical information imparted, etc. I try to keep the atmosphere light; this is, after all, one of the happiest days of their lives. I have heard that adopters find the final handover day almost as traumatic as the foster carer, as if they’re stealing someone’s own child.

      With details exchanged and forms signed there is not much else to be said. Unexpectedly, Kate walks over and squeezes my arm. ‘I want you to know we’ve waited a long time for this day. Thank you for taking such good care of her.’

      The well of tears I was fighting to hold down threatens to overflow. Reassured that Sarah is going to someone sensitive and kind, I gulp, nodding in acknowledgement. I don’t really trust myself to speak as I lift the sleepy baby from her crib, tucking her blanket gently around her.

      ‘Well, tha’ seems to be everything covered,’ Desmond says as he walks over to me, tactfully touching my shoulder to remind me that we have a job to do.

      Surrendering someone so vulnerable to an unknown future feels unnatural, wrong even. Every instinct shouts at me to hold on to Sarah but I summon all my mental energy and brush a brief kiss on her warm forehead. ‘Be happy,’ I whisper, ignoring the ache in my chest and planting her firmly in the social worker’s arms.

      As Desmond turns to cross the room I hold onto the thought that whatever life holds in store for Sarah, at least during her first six weeks she was cocooned, suspended for a short while in a net of love and safety. I hope that I’ll see her again one day, even though I know it’s unlikely. Adoptive couples often prefer to draw a line under the past, a sentiment I can sympathise with, however difficult it can be for foster carers to accept.

      ‘Do you think she’ll be alright?’ I ask Desmond as we watch her for-ever parents settle Sarah’s seat into their car then exchange a tender kiss over the open passenger door. I give up trying to hold back the tears.

      ‘She is a much-wanted child.’ Desmond, a rock at times like this, wraps a steady arm around my trembling shoulders and draws me back into the house. ‘They’ll cherish her,’ he assures me, leading me into the kitchen. ‘You’s no’ to worry. Now, put tha’ kettle on. I need to give you the heads up on an urgent case we’ve just had in.’

      And so the wheel turns, I think, as I never cease to wonder how lucky I am to have found such a special job.