“You fucking bitch. You think you can fucking judge me? You think you can come in here and from a five-minute look around decide it’s the right thing to do to take my kids away from me?”

“Mr. Shelp, please calm down,” I urge softly, keeping my distance from the man who is standing a few feet away in the open door to his home. “If you clean things up, and—”

“Fuck you,” he cuts me off, pointing at me, my words doing nothing but pissing him off more. “You’re going to get what’s coming to you, bitch. Be prepared. You took something from me, so I’m going to take something from you.” He walks into his house, slamming the door. I close my eyes for a moment, pulling in a deep breath before getting into my car, which is parked on the street.

I sit, staring at the house, but not really seeing it at all, because tears fill my eyes, making it blurry. This is the part of my job I hate, the part I wish I didn’t have to do. I always knew from the time I was young that I wanted to be a social worker. I didn’t know exactly what the job entailed; I just knew I wanted to be a voice for the kids who were too young to speak up for themselves. Growing up the child of two people who were more concerned with getting drunk or high than me, I needed someone to step in for me, but no one ever did. No one ever cared that my parents spent all their money on drugs and booze. Not one person took a second to make sure I had food in my stomach or a safe place to rest my head at night.

I don’t know how my life would have turned out if someone did care enough to make a call to social services to let them know they had concerns about my well-being. All I know is that now, I’m the person who has to go into people’s homes to check on children those around them have concerns about. Children like Mr. Shelp’s ten-year-old daughter Lisa and twelve-year-old son Eric, whose school called wanting to make sure the kids were okay when they were at home with their father. The report we received told us that both kids regularly showed up at school in dirty clothes, often telling their teachers they hadn’t eaten or that their dad hadn’t been around in days.

Even with the information provided to me in that first report, I didn’t make any assumptions. I know better than to go into a situation assuming the worst. Things happen. Life happens. People have bad days or bad weeks, and families often struggle to put food on the table. I, for one, never want to be the reason a child is taken from the only home they know, the only people they know, without having a valid reason.

During my first visit to the Shelps, I saw for myself that the school’s concerns were valid. Mr. Shelp greeted me at the door drunk then led me into his home, which was a wreck. The place wasn’t just “lived in.” It was unlivable. There were dirty dishes everywhere, along with open alcohol containers, full ashtrays, used condoms, and trash… so much trash. The floors were covered in a thick layer of garbage, including the kids’ bedroom. Worse, there was no edible food in the cupboards or fridge.

It was during the first visit when I made a decision that both kids should be removed from the home until things were cleaned up, and only then would their situation be reevaluated. Today was my second home study. I expected to come and find things better than they were the last time I was here. Unfortunately, I found that nothing had changed, including Mr. Shelp, who was wasted yet again.

Once I get myself under control and know I will be able to drive without endangering anyone, I pull out onto the street and head back to the office to fill out the necessary paperwork. Both Mr. Shelp’s children have been placed with a local family for the time being, and I know from working with their foster family in the past that they are being well taken care of.

Sadly, some foster families are in it for the money. Those are usually the ones people hear about on the news or through the grapevine, but there are families who just want to help. Families like the McKays, who have never been able to have children of their own and have thrived off being able to take in kids who need a soft place to fall when life is rocky. The McKays have now adopted ten kids, and three of them are currently in college. They’ve also had countless foster kids stay with them over the years, and most children don’t want to leave when it’s time for them to return to their biological parents. I wish more foster parents were like them.

Unfortunately, being a foster parent is not easy and is often a double-edged sword. When you sign up to foster, you know what your role is. You know you will likely have to give the child back to his or her biological parent or parents, but attachments happen and feelings get involved, making it difficult.

I have never done it, but I can’t imagine loving a child after knowing their history and their story, and then having to let them return to a situation that might not be the healthiest for them. Still, the courts believe kids should be with their biological parents and that we, as social workers, should work toward that, no matter what, which means often times kids are taken from people who could provide for them and returned to their parents who are just that—their parents.

Not all situations that come across my desk are the same. I have, over the years, had more than a few adoptive families who just need me to help them with finalizing their adoptions, or families who’ve had calls placed against them that have been inaccurate. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to investigate a family because someone made a false claim against them out of spite.

When I reach the office, I see Marian’s car is the only one left in the lot, meaning all my co-workers are out. Great. I park, then head inside the building and rush toward my office. I don’t even stop in the staff kitchen for the cup of coffee I desperately need, because I don’t want to run into my boss. It’s not nice, but I try to avoid Marian as much as possible. She rubs me the wrong way. She’s judgmental and arrogant and always talking down to anyone and everyone, including the families she’s supposed to be helping. How or why she became a social worker, I do not know. What I do know is that she would better serve as a warden for a prison.

When I reach my office door, I grind to a halt and stare at Marian sitting at my desk, looking at my computer.

“Is everything okay?”

At my question, her head flies up and surprise fills her eyes before she wipes the look away and attempts to frown, the Botox she’s had done making it difficult.

“Why wouldn’t everything be okay?”

“I don’t know.” I move into my office, and when I start toward my desk, I see she has some forms pulled up on my computer. I try to get a look at what she’s doing, but she quickly exits whatever it is she’s looking at.

Okay, what the hell is going on?

“I needed to use your computer. Mine isn’t working.”

I study her for a long time, trying to gauge if she’s lying or not, but I can’t read her. Really, I have no reason to think she would lie about her computer not working, since our systems haven’t been updated in years and my computer just went out a week ago.

“Did you get what you needed?” I set my purse on the edge of my desk and her eyes move to it.

“When did you get that bag?” I look at my Coach purse, a gift I bought myself for my birthday—a gift that didn’t cost even half as much as it should have, since I got it at the outlet store in Nashville.

“A few weeks ago.”

“How could you afford it?” At her question, I’m physically reminded of how much I don’t like her when I feel the muscles around my spine get tight.

“Pardon?”

“I’m only asking, because we’ve had some discrepancies come up over the last few months.”

“Discrepancies?”

“Some of the funds that have been allotted to a few of the kids for things they needed have gone missing.”

“What?” My stomach rolls at the idea of someone taking from the kids, kids who don’t have much to begin with, who count on the little we give them.

“Never mind. It’s not something you need to worry about.” She stands from my chair and walks around me toward the door. “I’m looking into things.”

“How much has been taken?”

At my question, she turns to look at me. “I can’t tell you that information. Just know that when I find out who took that money, they will be answering to me before they do some major jail time.”