Today makes seven days.
Seven days since I packed a tiny bag, kissed a soft cheek, and handed a little boy back to a world that keeps shifting under his feet.
People talk about fostering with warm words. They say it’s rewarding. They say it’s challenging. They say the goodbyes hurt, but the purpose makes it worth it. What they don’t talk about is the quiet guilt that slips in like a shadow. A guilt so heavy it steals your sleep and sits in the center of your chest.
I never heard anyone name it until now.
Foster parent guilt.
He came to me at three weeks old, his small body recovering from a fight he never chose. Two relatives tried to take him in, then returned him to CPS. When he finally arrived at my door, wrapped in a hospital blanket, he fit in my arms as if he had been made for them.
I watched him grow.
I watched him heal.
I watched him become a child who knew comfort and stability for the very first time.
He slept through the night. He rolled over. He almost sat up on his own. He grabbed fistfuls of mashed fruit with a grin wide enough to melt anyone who saw it. When he cried, he cried for me. When he was scared, he reached for me. My voice settled him. My arms made him feel safe. I was the center of his little world.
And then last Thursday came.
A court hearing. A decision. A new relative approved at the very last moment. Two hours to gather his things. Two hours to hold him for what I knew would be the last time in a very long time. Maybe ever.
I buckled him into a car I had never seen before, driven by people he had never met. And as they pulled away, he kept looking for me. Searching every corner of that backseat for the face he trusted most.
That image is tattooed on my heart.
It is the reason the guilt presses so hard.
I know the rules of foster care. I know he was never mine to keep. But he didn’t know that. He believed I would always be there. His small heart loved without limits or warnings or conditions. And when the door closed behind him, it broke in a way I cannot soothe.
This week I have been told over and over that I shouldn’t feel guilty, that I did everything right, that I gave him the best start he could’ve had. I understand all of it. But facts don’t soften the ache.
Because I was the one who had to give him back.
I was the one who had to hand over a child who trusted me completely.
I was the one who watched him disappear down a street that felt too long and too final.
Foster care is necessary, but it is also unfair. Children already wounded by instability are asked to carry more. No matter how gentle the transition, no matter how loving the adults, the pain is real. The trauma is real.
And so is the guilt that stays with the ones who love them in the middle of it.
Yet even in the ache, something remains. A thread stitched through every memory. A truth spoken long before either of us existed. A promise that outlives heartbreak.
Love remains the greatest.
And for a brief, beautiful season, he had it.
Fully. Fiercely. Unconditionally.