George's Story

 I don't believe in respite. People think I'm mad, but I don't believe in it.

“We were driving Max to another carer's place for the weekend so my partner and I could go to a wedding. Max would have been about nine or ten. I looked in the mirror and I could see little tears. He said he felt sick, he had butterflies. He was so anxious that we weren't going to pick him up on Monday.

And I just thought here I am, an adult. I wouldn't go to some random person's house for the weekend. We'd stay in a motel. We'd do whatever. But here I was expecting this little person to do that, just because they were an authorised carer. That doesn't mean nothing to them. They're a stranger. It literally gutted me thinking that this little person is so anxious about us not coming back.

From that day on, I said, we're not doing it.

Then another time, we're driving and Max just says to me, he would have been nine or ten again and he said, 'when I turn 18, am I allowed to have your number? Can I have your phone number?'

And I said, 'You've got my number now, mate. I've only ever had that number for twenty odd years.'

He said, 'Yeah, but when I turn 18, am I allowed to ring you?'

I said, 'Of course you can, mate. When you're twenty, when you're thirty, when you're forty. You're gonna be a part of my family.'

And he just burst out crying.

We'd conditioned this little person to think that when he turns 18, he's got no one. He'd had twenty odd placements. A lot of them broke down while he was at school. The incident would happen in the morning, he'd go to school, and he was never returned to that house. Never saw those people again.

That little boy. Nine years old. Already grieving something that hadn't even happened yet."

— George, an experienced foster carer (all names changed to protect privacy)

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