A few hours later, the television news reported that Millie had died from her extensive injuries. “There are no words,” I sobbed to Erick.
The gruesome details unraveled over the next few days. Their uncle, a diagnosed schizophrenic who lived in the home, had first murdered Millie’s grandmother—a wheelchair-bound double-amputee with severe medical issues. While Millie’s aging grandfather was in the shower, her uncle used the same tire iron to brutalize Millie and her younger sister. Two other children were spared when the grandfather stopped the massacre. The younger sister survived.
“I can’t believe they were placed back with those grandparents! Weren’t we told there was no suitable family?” Erick said.
“The kids were removed from that home in the first place!” I shouted.
“Their agency probably sent them to relatives just to get them off the books and make their numbers look better,” Erick seethed.
My grief galvanized me. I clicked on Facebook and eulogized Millie. I found some of my favorite photos of her on my computer, and I posted them to show the healthy, joyful child whose ending was violent, painful, and senseless.
We were quickly warned by foster care officials not to publically speak about Millie and to take down her photo. “I don’t know what to do,” I said to Erick. “The lead agency and the Department of Children and Families are going to try to discredit us and find a way to spin this so they’re not at fault.”
“We know that professionals had good reason to oppose placement with the grandparents, and stated so in court,” Erick said, pacing back and forth in the living room.
I went upstairs to put Ethan’s laundry away but felt as if I were walking through molasses. I sat on our bed with tears streaming. Then I remembered a drawing on our refrigerator. Running downstairs, I pulled down the picture decorated with hearts. Our names, Erick and Ashley, were written on the back. It was signed: “From Millie.” Pain flooded through me as I thought of her grin when we found the art that she taped to the refrigerator as a surprise for us. And I knew in that instant that if we didn’t speak up for her, they would bury her story along with her body.
My attorney reminded me that I did not give up my first amendment rights when I became a foster parent, and that once a child dies, the confidentiality rules change.
A week after Millie’s death, the agency opened her files to the press and the public, and issued a formal statement saying, “After assessing all the documents in the case file, we’ve come to the conclusion there were no indications that we could prevent this type of thing from happening with this family . . .”
“How can anyone believe that?” I asked Erick. “We can read page after page of red flags, objections by professionals, and details about the many serious issues this family has.”
Millie’s brief life may be over, but I am determined her story will live on. In Florida, a Critical Incident Rapid Response Team is convened to study the evidence and make a timely report that supposedly will lead to changes. Unfortunately, the examination is done by the Department of Children and Families, which may not do the most impartial investigation. However, according to the state, Millie’s case—and dozens of other recent child deaths—does not meet the narrow criteria for further investigation. My website (rhodes-courter.com) will include updates on her case, and even though her name here is fictitious, it will be easy to find the real story and links to press coverage.
There was a time when I thought I always had to be wary, because nothing was as it seemed. Millie’s story thrust me back into that dark corner. Lorraine was supposed to protect me, but she was never there to pull me out of the swamp that threatened to suck me in. Charming foster mothers could turn into vicious monsters after the caseworker dropped me off. Gay and Phil slowly introduced me to the L word with brief “love yous” at bedtime or at the end of phone calls. Erick had told me he loved me years before I could admit even a minuscule affection for him. Years! Would any other man have been as patient? In the end, I discovered that to love him, I had to learn to love myself.
Together, we both parented Millie, and together, we will grieve and find a way to make her life count for something. I am a passionate person. I throw myself into projects, whether it is graduate school, running for election, or getting a service for one of my children. I thrive accomplishing things for others.
Yet I cannot take sole credit for my own happiness. To my great fortune, many people have prevented me from falling into the abyss of loneliness and despair. A few wise counselors at The Children’s Home helped me see my potential and showed me how much they cared. My Guardian ad Litem, Mary Miller, worked diligently to free me for adoption. Then Gay and Phil took an enormous risk by adopting a surly preteen who behaved abominably and acted ungrateful. I laugh about it now because I have fostered so many kids who have given me more than a taste of my own medicine. The Courters also showed me something even more meaningful: the example of their own marriage. They never shout, there is rarely anger, and problems are discussed openly and fairly. Their mutual respect and cooperation allowed us to have remarkable family adventures.
Phil is my model for the nurturing man. He made me feel safe coming to him with my conflicted feelings and quietly counseled me. Gay and I collided, probably because we are more alike than we admit. I can see how my marriage mirrors that of my parents. I tend to be strong willed and a detail-oriented planner. Like Phil, Erick is more mellow, supportive, empathetic, and funny. He knows when to step back and wait until I calm down. I had dated enough boisterous, selfish guys who were focused on money, possessions, power, and success to know that I clashed with these types; yet I thought they were the sort that others would approve of.
Eventually I got over the notion of whom I “should be attracted to” or “should be dating” and looked to what made me feel safe and happy. And there was Erick, who provided a lifeline whenever I felt I was being swept into a stormy sea.
From the moment I walked into their home, my parents have been there. If they are not directly helping me by building new garage doors (Phil) or advising me about my taxes (Gay), they are the stars I steer by as I chart my own course. When I was putting myself through grad school, I remembered how Gay taught me about financial aid and grants during my undergraduate studies. She helped me balance my first checkbook, showed me how to budget money and buy a car, and also gave me a businesslike voice that stands me in good stead when I work on my own projects.
The Courters also instilled a sense of civic responsibility in me. Gay has been a guardian for more than twenty-five years, and Phil has been influential on state and local child welfare boards. Erick also feels a moral and philanthropic duty to the community. We did not go into fostering to adopt a child, but to give back to children when they are at the most stressful moment in their lives.
Every parent is always learning. Erick and I have come a long way—together. We are a polished team and know how to soothe lonely babies, love them while they are ours, kiss their hurts, cuddle and rock them, keep them clean and fresh, help them fall asleep gently, bolster them with good nutrition, get them up to speed developmentally, find them the best services and educational programs, then let them go with grace.
They arrive half-naked and filthy, bruised, and sad. They bring with them tragic revelations of how twisted and cruel people can be to those they should be treating the most lovingly. They depart with suitcases of toys and clothes, clean and healthy. Yes, it hurt when Albert left. Erick and I comforted each other. It worried us even more when we heard Lillian and her brothers were back with their mother, who had let perverts prey on them. We are angered by Florida’s policies that still endanger children. A recent exposé of Florida’s child welfare system by the Miami Herald showed that in the last six years, 535 children, whose parents or caregivers had a history with the Department of Children and Families, died from abuse. Yes, more than five hundred children who supposedly were under the state’s watchful eye. As we follow Millie’s story and the d
etails behind other similar headlines, we are learning that this number is likely much higher. And now one of our foster children will be a part of that count. But Millie—and all these children—deserved so much more. While the majority of our kids were placed with competent relatives, several went back to such dangerous situations that there didn’t seem to be a point to the original removal. Plus, that number of deaths is the tip of the iceberg. It takes a lot to murder a child. For every one that is killed, there may be dozens or hundreds who are tortured, sexually abused, beaten, or starved. Many other cases will never be reported, even more are already a part of the system with no action being taken, and there are so many potential outcomes in each situation. If Skyler’s grandmother had arrived on time, he might never have been injured; if she had come later, he would have died. If Tiffany had wanted to be less cooperative, she could have insisted on Marla being the one to take Skyler—even though Marla was a nonrelative Skyler had never met.
Even if all the hurt children were removed from their violent families, there aren’t enough decent foster homes. While we are connected in a network of exceptional parents and volunteers who inspire us to keep serving, we’ve dealt with many other foster parents who do not have the same standards of cleanliness, community service, or nutrition that we do. Two respite siblings came to us with lice and bags of clothes and supplies saturated with cigarette smoke—something we expect from a removal, but not a licensed foster home. Other foster parents relied on the schools to provide most of the children’s food. The funds that subsidize foster children are meant to support the children, not to be “salaries” for the parents. Since all foster children are severely upset by their situation, every home should have therapeutic training, and all children should have access to counseling, not just a lucky few.
In Florida and other parts of the country, the money-saving trick of avoiding removals or reunifying prematurely puts children’s lives at risk. After a report of abuse, some parents defer the complicated court process by signing a “safety plan”—which is nothing more than a promise not to be violent or neglectful or to use drugs in front of the children. While I know the local laws and statistics best, the problem is endemic nationwide. This misguided penny-pinching has resulted in tragic consequences through the child welfare system. When I was a foster child, biological parents were not given the services and resources they needed to take care of their own children, and kids were removed for the smallest of slights. Today the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction, and it has resulted in many avoidable tragedies, like Millie’s murder.
When dedicated workers and professionals come together, the system can help struggling families and save children. There are countless policies and laws in place that expedite case plans, allow for prosecution of offenders, and even punish those who do not report abuse. Many of these rules are ignored. Had we not been diligent, many of our kids would have had no other advocate. When we were frustrated, Erick and I reminded ourselves that we were doing this for the children who can’t comprehend bureaucracy. Children do understand a gentle smile, a soothing hug, a full belly, and a cozy bed.
We look at Skyler every day and think of what could have been. He lights up with every kind word, funny noise, or any offer to play with him. He gobbles delicious food, sleeps in a clean bed, hugs his little brothers and his pets, and is adored by his loving parents. He is as safe as any child anywhere in the world, and we will do anything to make sure he has a happy, healthy life.
People are always asking us how we dare foster. “We couldn’t fall in love with a child and then let him go,” they say.
“Yes, you could, if it were best for the child,” we reply. “In the meantime you can enjoy their growth and mastery. A teacher who has a class for a year is able to let her students go, knowing she contributed as much as she could during that time.”
Our friend Beth said it best: “We’re the adults in the situation, and these children deserve to have someone who cares enough to cry for them when they leave.”
I try to inspire people to contribute what they can—primarily their time and skills. Fostering is a serious commitment, yet so many more foster families are needed. Being a Guardian ad Litem or CASA volunteer is a powerful way to contribute and influence a child’s case in court. Without Bennett’s advocacy, Skyler might not have had such a secure outcome. There are many other opportunities to donate and mentor. Many groups that serve children are nonprofits that rely on donations, grants, and volunteers. Adoption can save a child’s life. There are more than 100,000 American children of all ages and backgrounds who already have had their parental rights terminated, and they are waiting for forever families. Some are the age I was when the Courters took a chance on me—and a good number are older. Tragically, over 20,000 youths leave the foster care system or “age out” every year. They don’t have someone like Phil to call when they have a flat tire or Gay to ask a cooking question.
Two weeks after we finalized Skyler’s adoption, I was on the road for a multi-city speaking engagement. My body ached, and I couldn’t hold down any food. When I got home, I went to the doctor, assuming I had picked up a stomach bug. Much to my surprise, the doctor came back with a different diagnosis.
I called Erick from the parking lot. “I know we said we weren’t going to take any long-term placements for a while. . . .”
“Are we getting another kid?”
“Sort of.”
“We can’t take in someone tonight with you feeling so sick.”
“I think we have a little bit of time before this one arrives.”
After a long pause he put the pieces together, and we both laughed.
I no longer question the meaning of life or wonder whether I am happy. I’ve been hungry enough times without any ability to get more food that I am grateful for plentitude. I have known what it is like to believe that nobody will ever adore me, and now I am thankful for all the affection in my life. I would be bereft without those who offer me unwavering understanding, encouraging compliments, and both honest and critical love. Being loved and allowing myself to feel it finally empowered me to trust. The next step was the hardest. It took me two decades to learn to freely reciprocate and utter the words.
There is no more guessing. The three more words are: I love you.
I love you, Ethan and Skyler. I love you, Erick. I love you, Gay and Phil. I love you, Josh and Giulia, Blake and Amber. I love you, Sharon and Rob and Jasper and Penelope. I love you, Lorraine, because we can’t escape our past, and Autumn, because you are a part of my future. And I love you, Luke, unconditionally, and I hope someday you can find some peace in this world.
Though it seems like we’ve only just met, I have loved you, Andrew Lewis Smith, since I could feel your kicks and somersaults under my heart. You will be loved forever. I promise.
19.
postscript
It is better to conquer yourself than
to win a thousand battles.
—Buddha
Lorraine and Autumn have had some rocky times during Autumn’s early teen years. My half sister has tried living with our aunt Leanne in South Carolina but lasted only a few weeks. After an altercation with her mother, Autumn claimed she was being abused. I talked to the investigator, who didn’t feel the report was substantiated. They seem to have a roller coaster of a relationship, worse than I had with Gay as a teen. I see small updates on social media that paint a picture-perfect situation. I recently read that Autumn made the cheer squad and is doing well in her school. Hopefully Lorraine really is still sober and the two will emerge from this phase stronger and closer than ever, because—as I have learned—a girl needs a mom forever.
Luke is back in jail due to his latest felony charge. I fear that one day he’ll end up in prison for a long time.
We ran into Albert’s old caseworker almost two years after Albert left and asked if she had heard anything about him. “Oh, I see him all the time at a day care I visit for another one of my cas
es. He’s doing so well,” she said, trying to placate me. His father should have started him in elementary school by now.
Lance is doing wonderfully with his aunt in Maryland.
Lillian and her brothers are back with their mother. I worry about them every day.
Micah and Zachariah are living happily with their adoptive family in Oregon.
Tiffany left Florida and had a baby girl, but left the baby’s father and went to live with relatives in another state. She eventually returned to Florida to live with Lamar’s mother, even though she had become pregnant with another man’s child a few weeks after delivering her daughter. This is Tiffany’s fourth pregnancy in four years.
Erick and I started the Foundation for Sustainable Families as a way to combine our mutual interests and bridge service gaps in our community and globally. Our nonprofit will allow us to provide families access to everything from family therapy, parenting and breastfeeding classes, early childhood education and nutrition, to foster and adoption resources—and even their own organic gardens (SustainableFamiliesFoundation.org).
Me hugging my dolls while in foster care.
I was very active as a child and played on a local softball team while living at a group home.
My adpotive parents took me on many amazing trips. This picture was taken at a festival in California.
Ever since I was a teen, I have been speaking about child welfare issues all over the world.
Onstage at Eckerd College. I majored in theater and communications, with minors in political science and psychology.
Graduation day at Eckerd College. I went on to earn my master’s degree in social work at the University of Southern California.
Erick and I spent a weekend with my biological family “muddin’ ” in the Carolinas.