Excerpt from Issue 306 (Winter 2026)
"The Bridge" by Kimberly Foulger
Content note: discusses child abuse.
The brown paint chipped off the cement steps to reveal the bright purple we were trying to hide. I picked at it absentmindedly, making it worse, like my resolve, slowly being chipped away with each goodbye. All the neighbours driving by remembered the purple anyway. My friends asked me how I could go through this again and again. I used to have an answer, but now I couldn’t go inside. I needed to avoid my four heartbroken daughters. I felt the rush of pain, the crushing, breathless feeling gripped me as I sat and tried to collect myself. I wished the car that took my boys away would just do a spin around the block and bring them back, but I knew they wouldn’t. I knew I would never see the two-year-old and three-year-old brothers, who had been mine for the last year, again. Because they were never really mine. It didn’t matter how many nightmares or medical procedures I comforted them through, or how many times I stayed up with them while they were sick. It didn’t matter what milestones I cheered them through. They were never mine. As one social worker loaded the car with suitcases and crates of toys, my littlest boy saw me crying on the step. He grabbed his worker’s hand and pointed to me.
“That’s my mommy. Don’t cry mommy, I’ll see you apter my bizit.”
His wide toddler eyes, too big for his small face, stayed locked on mine until he and the car disappeared. My tears had given him an inkling this wasn’t a routine visit. Despite long weeks of preparation, with longer and longer visits and having them help me pack, he still thought he would see me later. Toddlers rarely understand. His older brother had a better idea; he refused to speak to me all morning and stomped into the car with his arms crossed. What these boys didn’t know was that we had been successful. The team of people all working for them and their two other brothers who had been in a nearby foster home, had found a home that would raise all four of them together. As horrible as this day felt — for them, for my children left behind, for me — it was “in the best interest of the children.”
But what does that phrase mean? Why is it important, how do we as foster parents fight for it? How do we justify short-term trauma for long-term connection? And how do we mitigate the impact in our own families and for the children we care for? I struggled with these questions during my career in foster care, and I know I was not alone. The way foster parents are treated by the jurisdiction they work in varies widely across Canada and has an incredible impact on the journey through foster care for our children. I want to share my journey, to talk about how I grew and learned to balance my values and philosophy within the system I worked in and how I attempted to meet the “best interests” of the more than seventy children who became part of my heart and family. I also want to address the importance of professionalism for foster parents and how their inclusion as equal members of the professional team ensures the highest quality of care for children.
The United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child has clarified some of the defining ideas for the best interests of children. When addressing foster care, it states that the best interest of a child is to be with their natural family, and when that is not possible, because of abuse, neglect, or death, then placement within a family environment is preferred. The family environment is seen as the optimal place to nurture the development of children. The UNCRC highlights the importance of reunification and permanency for a child.(1) Foster care is meant to be an intermediate, temporary family environment for a vulnerable child who is not able to live with her parents for a period of time. Foster parents are a bridge, a safe passage over troubled waters.
After several years of fostering, I was given a small fridge magnet at a training conference, which symbolized this journey. It featured a cartoon bridge and the caption said, “foster parents, the bridge between.” At the time, I was caring for four-year-old Carson, the only child of a single mom. As so often happens, his confusion at being removed from their home was evident in his behaviour. One afternoon, I went into his bedroom and found him with a crayon, scribbling angrily all over the walls. He glared at me in defiance, crayon poised for more. I gently took the crayon out of his hand and sat down with him.
“I know you are angry you are here and not with your mom. I know it’s hard, honey. And you miss her a lot. I am not going to get mad at you and I am not going to send you away. So, let’s clean up the crayon together so you have a nice room while you are here and if you want you can colour a picture to give to Mom when she visits tomorrow.”
When she arrived the next day, I knew I needed to speak with her, and the magnet gave me an idea.
“Can we sit and chat for a minute? Carson is struggling and I think if we talk together about what is going on, it may help him.”
We sat at the table with a clean piece of paper. On one side, I drew a picture of him with his mom, standing on a bank of land.
“You and your mom were together for a long time. She took care of you but then some trouble started for her.”
Carson’s mom explained as simply as she could why he was there and what she was doing so that they could be back together. I brought the pencil down and drew land giving way to waves to signify water.
“What your mom is going through is like this deep water. What would being in that water be like for kids?” I asked Carson.
His eyes were wide. “They drown,” he said plainly.
“You aren’t going to drown, but it is not safe for kids in deep water like that. And that is where Mommy is right now. She needs to do some swimming.” I then took my pencil, and I drew a large bridge over the water and connected it to solid land. I put stick people representing our family on the bridge.
“That is why you are here. Being here, with me, and the girls, this is a safe place for you to be right now. Out of the water. When Mommy is ready . . .” I drew his stick-figure mom waiting on the opposite shore.
“When Mommy is ready, and she is out of this water, you will leave us and go back to your mom, and I am going to help both of you as best I can.” His mom reached across the table with tears in her eyes and took his hand.
“I’m working really hard, buddy.”
I left the table, and they coloured the picture together. Later, while they played with Lego and shared a snack, I made a copy. I gave one to Carson’s mom to take home, and we taped the other picture by Carson’s bed.
“This will remind you that we all love you, and we are all doing what we need to do to keep you safe, ok? And you know that you will be off the bridge and back with your mom as soon as she is ready.”
He moved back home a few months later and he happily took the drawing off the wall, folded it neatly, and added it to his suitcase.
I first became aware of the work of foster parents when I was in university following the “acceptable” career route for a theatre artist by working towards my education degree. With no particular passion for teaching, I enjoyed spending time with the kids. My first time as a student teacher, I was in Mrs. Fitz’s grade-six class. During early spring the class went for a nature walk through a local wooded area. I walked at the back of the line to make sure there were no stragglers getting lost amongst the poplars. A few students hung back with me, jostling each other for my attention, trying to outdo each other with their antics. Amber was the loudest. She would grip my arm and push the other kids away while she talked nonstop. I can’t remember what they were supposed to be looking for, but it was crisp and bright, and the woods sang with the prairie wind. Under a cloudless sky, the poplars sounded like rain. When the other kids ambled off to fill out whatever worksheet we had brought along, Amber’s face got sullen. She was a small girl, noticeably skinny with messy, tangled, dirty blond hair. She had an eager, almost panicked look when she talked, and she would talk louder and faster if she thought you weren’t paying attention. Her sudden quietness was distinct. I sensed she had something to say, but she was hesitant. No matter how hard I try to remember, I can’t find her words in my memory. I know it was graphic, sexual, and about her dad. I know she used a defensive, almost bragging tone, challenging me to respond. I was filled with panic, grief, and anger. I felt like I was dreaming, I couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the school day. I was numb and out of place.
When the class finally emptied, I approached Mrs. Fitz. “Amber mentioned some really troubling things happening at home.” I told her everything Amber said to me. I didn’t know anything about foster care but knew I had to speak.
“You did the exact right thing telling me. I will have to call social services right now; they will look into it.”
I felt both relief and deepening panic. I acted in the only way I could and yet had no idea what would happen to Amber.
(1) UN General Assembly, Convention on the Rights of the Child, United Nations, Treaty Series, vol. 1577 (20 Nov. 1989): 3, https://www.refworld.org/docid/3ae6b38f0.html.
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— Kimberly Foulger retired from her long career working with vulnerable families after a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. She now endeavours to integrate the wisdom of experience with her passion for writing. Kim writes from her home and, on sunny days, her boat, in Vancouver, BC. You can find her @quillkim.bsky.social.
Read the rest of "The Bridge" in Issue 306 (Winter 2026). Order the issue now!
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