Refugees

There isn’t anything quite as wretched for me as a foster parent than to watch a social worker’s car drive away with a scared, confused kid in the back. Today, I sent off a kid named SN, who we had had for the weekend. She knew nothing about where she was going, and I’m pretty sure she had been crying in the bathroom a few minutes before. SN is a sweet, gentle, softspoken 14 year old who doesn’t understand why any of this is happening to her.

I helped her load up her stuff, told her that she was strong and would get through it, and then stayed outside waving until the car was out of sight. I had given her a new backpack for her scattered belongings, and our phone number in case she wanted to call us. I wish I could have given her what she actually needs.

I didn’t cry until I went back up to her room, and found that despite everything she has gone through and is currently feeling, she took the time to neatly make her bed. Somehow, the fact she made her bed drove home for me the reality of it all. The poor kid is basically a refugee in a war much bigger than she is, but she’s hanging on.

I just pray she keeps hanging on. I really hope she’ll be okay.

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