In August, Margaret turned seventy-nine.
Claire brought breakfast.
Not cake.
Eggs.
She placed a plain white plate in front of Margaret.
Margaret looked at it.
“You kept the blue one?”
“At home.”
“Good.”
Claire sat across from her.
“I used it yesterday.”
“For eggs?”
“Yes.”
Margaret smiled.
Claire looked down at the table.
“I have a question.”
“Ask.”
“Why didn’t you foster again after me?”
Margaret’s smile faded.
“I did.”
Claire looked surprised.
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“A six-year-old boy stayed two months. Then went to his grandmother.”
“And after that?”
Margaret folded her hands.
“I stopped.”
“Because of me?”
“Because I no longer trusted the process.”
Claire looked down.
Margaret continued.
“And because I was angry.”
“At Edith?”
“At everybody.”
She smiled sadly.
“Your name was not the only one in that box.”
Claire looked at her.
“There were applications. Complaint letters. Notes from calls.”
“Did you complain formally?”
“Yes.”
