A Last Kiss for Mummy: A teenage mum, a tiny infant, a desperate decision
Bestselling author and foster carer Casey Watson tells the heartbreaking true story of a teenage mother and baby in need of a safe and loving home.At fourteen, Emma is just a child herself – and one who’s never been properly mothered. She has been in foster care several times already and when she discovered she was pregnant, and refused to have an abortion, her mother threw her out of the house.Casey and her family instantly form a strong bond with Emma’s baby Roman, but dealing with Emma’s behaviour and constant lack of responsibility is a far tougher challenge. And before long Casey finds she’s doing something she never thought she would – covering up for Emma’s shortcomings as she allows her personal involvement to colour her judgement.But the more Casey gets to know Emma the more she’s convinced that with the right help and guidance this lonely and unsupported girl can become a good mother to her gorgeous little boy. That’s what makes it even harder when Casey and her family have to make a stark choice: to hold on to Emma or look after Roman; to help a teenage girl desperate to turn her life around, or offer an innocent baby a safe home and much-needed good start in life.
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I would like to thank all of the team at HarperCollins, the lovely Andrew Lownie, and my friend and mentor, Lynne.
I’ve known my fostering link worker, John Fulshaw, for something approaching seven years now, so I’ve got to know his face pretty well. I’ve seen his happy face, his sad face, his ‘I don’t know how to tell you what I’m about to tell you’ face, his concerned face, his angry face and his ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got your back’ face as well.
So there wasn’t much that got past me, and today was no exception. There’d been this glint in his eye since the start of our meeting; a glint that told me that today he was wearing his ‘I can’t wait to tell you’ face. He’d had ants in his pants since he’d arrived.
It was a chilly autumn morning at the end of October. Not quite cold enough to put the heating on mid-morning, but certainly cold enough for me to be wearing my standard winter months outfit of leggings, a fluffy jumper and boots. My husband Mike had taken a rare day off from his job as a warehouse manager, and we were all grouped around the dining table, drinking coffee and trying to avoid eating too many biscuits, because it was the day we had our annual review.
It’s something all foster carers have, as a part of what we do – a summing up of how things have gone during the previous year. It’s a time to look back to previous placements, discuss what went well and what didn’t, talk about any complaints and allegations (none for us, thankfully) and, if appropriate, talk about what new things might happen in the coming year. It’s also an opportunity to discuss further training. As specialist foster carers we usually attend at least three training courses per year. In our case, today, everything had been positive, thank goodness. Not every placement works out well – that’s the nature of the job – but we had had a good year and Dawn Foster, the reviewing officer, who was also present, had praised me and Mike for the way we’d handled our last placement: two unrelated nine-year-old boys. Both had certainly been in need of support. Jenson was somewhat wayward, being the child of a neglectful single mother – one who’d left him and his sister home alone while going off on holiday with her boyfriend for a week. Georgie’s problems were different. He was autistic and had come from a children’s home that was closing down; the place where he’d spent almost all of his young life. Individually, both boys came with their own challenges, but our biggest challenge was that we’d had them both together. It had been a rocky ride at times, but, thankfully, they ended up friends.
The review over, and with Dawn on her way back to the office, I closed the front door with a now familiar tingle. We were between placements at the moment and the warm glow I’d felt when Dawn had been singing our praises had now been replaced with a feeling I knew all too well; one of excited anticipation. Just why did John have those ants in his pants? At last I’d have a chance to find out.
When I went back into the dining room – well, dining area, actually; the downstairs of our house is open plan – John was grinning and rubbing his hands together.
‘Well?’ I asked. Mike looked at me quizzically, but John laughed.
‘Get the kettle back on then,’ he said, his eyes glinting mischievously, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’ve been dying to tell you for the last hour.’
By the time I got back, of course, the pair of them were both grinning like idiots, so it was clear Mike was now one step ahead of me. I set the tray down and took my place back at the dining table. ‘Come on then,’ I said, plonking both elbows down. ‘Spit it out.’
Mike laughed, seeing my expression. ‘I think you’d better, John.’
John took his time, picking up his mug and taking a first sip of fresh coffee. ‘Actually, it’s not so much a “tell” as something I want to run by you.’
Which was always ominous. John had a history of wanting to ‘run things by’ us. It invariably meant he wasn’t confident that it was something we’d say yes to – at least wouldn’t say yes to if we had any sense. But that never fazed us. We had never been trained to do mainstream fostering. We were specialists – we specialised in taking the sort of kids that were too damaged or disturbed, for whatever reason, to be suitable for mainstream fostering or adoption.
So what would it be today? I raised my eyebrows enquiringly. ‘So, Casey,’ John said, speaking mostly to me now. It was me, after all, who’d do the day-to-day childcare. We fostered together but Mike obviously had his full-time job as well.
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly.
‘Well, it’s this,’ he said. ‘Have you ever considered a mother and baby placement?’
