My family had chosen to foster this severely disabled boy. I would be his “other mother”, for Sheryl was still, and always would be, his mother. Marco was his father, but the little boy would also have another father. He never knew that other families only have one of each.

He’d also have three siblings, two older sisters and a younger brother; he would be the brother my son had always wanted.

We were not told his background. Just that this poor little boy needed a family.

Our new life was beginning too.

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A big decision. One which would impact the lives of many, and years later the repercussions would still be experienced, right from the time when as a family we chose to go down the “road less travelled”, not knowing where it would lead, or what highs and lows we would experience.

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Our son, Joe, had always wanted a brother. He felt that he had been treated differently because he had no one to share his room. Dad and I shared a room, and so did his two sisters, Anna and Bella – where was someone to share his room? In his eyes, we’d failed as parents, by showing discrimination and acting deficiently in not providing a playmate. A significant injustice.

Even as a three-year-old, Joe had gone missing in a department store for a few minutes one day. I found him struggling to carry a bag of disposable nappies – so we could get a brother for him.

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Soon after, we decided to offer respite care to disabled children (boys, of course) – one weekend a month. This might help him to feel that he had a temporary brother. We hosted Glenn regularly. He was fascinated by clocks, timetables, and trains – prompting many outings to train stations to watch trains coming and going, checking if they were on time or not. Glenn had to be watched, however, as he was prone to randomly kicking anyone who was in his proximity.

He also threw all the toys over the back fence. On the Sunday night after he left, I would have to go around, apologise, and collect all the toys again. Not quite the substitute brother we’d hoped for, but it gave his parents a much-needed break. I needed respite after hosting him.

We went overseas for two years, during which time Glenn was placed with other respite carers.

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Shortly after our return, our local newspaper had a small advertisement which caught my attention. A new fostering program was looking for long-term placements for disabled children. My husband had had polio as a baby and walked with a limp; I had always had a care for the weak, vulnerable, or disadvantaged, and the thought of caring for another child, even one with a disability, appealed. I wanted my children to grow up to be caring and compassionate, to be sensitive to the needs of others, and to be willing to look after any who needed it, without judgment.

We discussed the situation as a family. I reminded Joe that this “brother” would probably not be able to play football or run around. He was happy with that.

We applied. Over the next eight months we completed all necessary paperwork, police checks and many interviews – even the children were interviewed individually. Our home and yard were inspected. Our daily lives and activities were carefully scrutinized. This decision would change our family life significantly, and irrevocably.

We were approved. The fostering would go ahead. The social worker asked what sort of disability I preferred – a strange question really. I didn’t mind, I assured her, so long as the child slept at night. I already had three children and was completing post-graduate studies in psychology. I was a light sleeper … and I knew my limits.

We had known the social worker for many months by then and trusted her. At her next visit she proclaimed that she already had someone in mind – a little boy of nine with cerebral palsy, six days younger than our second daughter. He even had blue eyes, like our son. The two girls had brown eyes.

We were told that this little boy loved music. Ours were all having piano lessons, and practised daily. He was sociable, and just enjoyed being with people, although he was unable to actively participate in most things. She was excited to be making “the perfect match”.

We would have on-going support from the fostering program, and because he was now a State Ward, we would also have support from a Department of Community Services caseworker allocated to our new foster-son, the new “big brother” for our seven-year-old boy.

Introductions would be gradual, just some day visits at first, then perhaps an overnight stay, and a gradual build-up to moving in permanently. His mother was happy with the arrangement, and she would take him home one weekend a month for respite for us. We were pleased. I respected and admired her courage and sacrificial love in choosing to give up her son so he could be looked after well. She knew she wasn’t coping. All in all, it sounded like a good plan.

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Jonathan arrived for his first day visit. He was a sweet child, and the children were happy with him. I found him a little difficult as he would not eat the sausages and scrambled eggs I’d made for his lunch. Nor would he drink water like the other children. He would not even close his lips around the cup. Otherwise, the visit went well. 

We had a follow-up phone call through the week from the social worker. Could he be placed sooner than expected? In fact, could it be within the next fortnight? Not what we had expected, but she explained that it would be better for him to start the new school year at a school for disabled children not far from us, rather than change his school mid-term. The summer holidays were drawing to a close; the new school year was about to begin. I understood her logic, and agreed.

She brought him to us, with his few possessions, the following weekend. My birthday. We'd met him only once.

Shortly before she departed, the social worker turned to me and said, “I have some other news. I don’t quite know how to say this, but … I’m leaving the program – I am setting up my own social work practice. But, of course there will be someone to replace me, who will give you every support you need ….”

This news was devastating. Yes, another social worker would replace her, but the new one did not know us, did not know Jonathan or his background, nor his mother. She knew nothing about the circumstances which had caused Jonathan to need foster care, and to become a State Ward.

We had a new child with very complex needs, and we were basically on our own. No replacement had yet been appointed, and we had not met the DOCS caseworker as the placement was rushed.

Looking back, I understood why it was rushed. She wanted it complete before she left. She also wanted it to be a fait accompli before we knew what Jonathan was really like. Before we could change our minds.

We were plunged into three new and very different worlds – the worlds of fostering, disability, and government services. They intersected in our home.

I soon found out that each of these worlds was complex, but the overlap was frightening. We were real babes in the wood, with no idea of what we were letting ourselves in for. We would soon know why it was “the road less travelled”.

I became … the crazy woman.

Little did I know that one day I would be threatened with legal responsibility if he should die.