The first time I came here, I found out each caseworker has about twenty kids under their supervision. There are three floors with rooms like this one. That is a lot of kids.A lot.
Rachel’s desk is covered in file folders, post-it notes, and disposable coffee cups. She has a professional exterior, but her personality sneaks out once in a while through small smirks, cleared throats, and muffled laughs.
“Your apartment was found suitable for care, and you passed both the psych evaluation and the background screening…” there’s a definitebutcoming on, “however,”Close enough,“we are still concerned about your income and financial security. We do not have a clear indicator that you’ll be able to keep up with your rent and bills if Willow is placed in your care.”
I flatten my dress out with my palms and tug at the fabric on my lap. “But since graduation, I’ve picked up enough work to pay all my bills, put money aside, and make loan payments.” Graphic design work, thankfully, pays well when you can find it.
“Right, and we appreciate your efforts. But we don’t have enough proof that this will continue, and you do not have enough savings, as of right now, to fall back on. Additionally, if Willow was to be placed with you, you would need to either cut back on work or make childcare arrangements, which can be costly.”
I know Rachel isn’t enjoying having to deliver this news—her face says she’d rather crawl into a hole—either way, I can’t help but feel annoyance settle between us.
I bite my cheek, my eyes narrowing on the edge of Rachel’s desk where a chewed piece of gum sits. “So I’m screwed then? No chance?” The tip of my nose and my eyes begin to burn, warning of tears. I choose not to stop it. I don’t have the energy.
“No. I said there was good news too, remember?” I blink rapidly at Rachel, willing her to continue. “We have this new program, a new initiative… TeamUp.” Her lip twitches with the hint of excitement.
My mind wanders to whomever is making marketing decisions for Child Protective Services. What a shitty gig and what terrible work they do. Every program I attended as a kid had awful names. “Found Children,” my least favourite, was a support group for adopted kids.
“TeamUp?” I purposely raise a brow to show my distaste.
“Yes, TeamUp.” Rachel opens a desk drawer and pulls out a pamphlet with a design somehow worse than the name. I take it anyway.
“The program was designed to partner up prospective guardians who will mutually benefit from one another. Both members would make fantastic foster or next-of-kin care providers; they would have passed the evaluations with flying colours, except for an element such as housing or income. In your case, you would be a wonderful contributor to housing. Having a three-bedroom apartment in an accessible building is really great. Someone with steady work and consistent income would be a good counterpart in your particular case.”
“So we’d live together? At my place?” I ask, my brows pressed together with disdain.
“Yes.” Rachel shifts in her seat, her tone sympathetic but strained, her patience thinning.
“Is that not… a little strange? I mean… I won’t know this person.”
“It is new, a little unusual—sure. But it could be the difference between Willow being placed with you and needing to go into temporary care until your re-evaluation in January. If you were to agree, it would be a short-term arrangement. Enough time for you to prove consistent income and for your TeamUp partner to find appropriate housing elsewhere. There would be a visit beforehand, and I would be available for support throughout.”
“It sounds like you have someone in mind,” I say.
Rachel’s mouth raises at one corner—she needs to work on her poker face.
“I suppose I do, yes. Another one of my cases. Similar situation to yours—a sibling guardianship.”
I nod, imagining another woman who is also trying to navigate this process and raise her sibling. We could figure it out together. Maybe it could even be fun. “Can I meet her?”
“Well, actually, it’s a him.” Rachel replies matter-of-factly, but her eyes shift between mine, trying to gauge a reaction.
My jaw drops. “A man? You want me to live with a man I don’t know?”
She gives me an exasperated look as she adjusts her glasses.
“I’m not trying to end up on the news.” My voice raises slightly, laughing unconvincingly.
Rachel scoffs, smiling. She is certainly letting her mask slip today.
“Warren is one year younger than you and trying to get legal custody of his fifteen-year-old brother. He has also passed all the evaluations other than housing. He has a one-bedroom apartment at the moment, and any child above the age of ten is required to have their own room. However, he’s a mechanic’s apprentice and has over two years of work at a consistent rate of pay.”
“I… I don’t think I would feel safe.”
“Your safety, Willow’s, and all my cases are my top and only priority. The psych evaluations have been extensive. I’d never ask you to consider it if I wasn’t confident everyone would be safe.”
Perhaps Warren is safe, considering he had to undergo the same evaluations I did. But a fifteen-year-old boy who grew up in the system? I can’t help but wonder if there are similar systems in place for the older kids too.
“And his brother?” I ask nervously.
