I groaned aloud as I read over the material we would be covering in our interview. My husband, Tommy patted me on the shoulder and reassured me it’d be okay. I dreaded this interview more than any of the other tasks we’d been required to do. However, we had finished our classes, had everything complete for our inspections, and we still had this one last interview to sit through. Suddenly, I was ready to quit.
Preparing to be foster parents shouldn’t be this tough, I thought to myself. I had three grown sons, a grown step-daughter, one teen still at home, and we’d just adopted two young children ages four and eight. Surely opening our home to children who needed a temporary home shouldn’t be such a chore. I was a good mother. I had no addictions, was a Christian, and had successfully raised children who were good, responsible parents. Why was I going to have to share with a complete stranger all the intimate details of my childhood? Why all the ridiculous questions?
“What was your relationship like with your mother?” There. The dreaded question was asked.
Startled, I heard an unfamiliar voice answer, “I had absolutely NO relationship with my mother. She didn’t even like me.” Oh, my gosh, did I say that? I sounded angry.
Suddenly, I found myself pouring out all sorts of stories and details that I had only shared with Tommy. Only he knew the pain and hurt I had felt for so many years … and here I was, sharing everything with a dark-haired woman of some unknown nationality. Was she Philippine? I couldn’t even remember her name. She was quiet … too quiet and she never smiled. I remembered that from the classes we attended. Something about her made me feel as if she already knew the answers before they erupted so honestly from my mouth.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you not have a relationship with your mother?”
“She was always too busy. There were too many other kids and she didn’t have time for me. She was thirty-five years old when I was born and had already had seven children before me! She was just too busy.”
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