My younger foster daughter stormed out of the living room where we’d been doing battle.
“You knew what you were getting into when you signed up for me!” she screamed, the crash of the front door shattering my heart.
But the truth was I didn’t know what I was getting into when I became a foster parent. My husband, Saul, and I had had Janine and her sister Mariah as foster children for almost four years by then. I had known the girls since they were small. I was their pediatrician. I met them on the day their mother, Linda, dragged them into my office with no appointment — they were not even my patients yet — and announced that Mariah was sick.
“She’s not well!” Linda bawled. “You have to help her!”