Was Being in Foster Care Better Than Living with My Negligent Father?

.When I was 8 years old, my mother died at 38. For a short while, my father tried to fill the void as best he could. He'd been deeply in love with my mother, who'd stayed home for 18 years, raising four children. With my mother's guiding hand, he provided for his family by working multiple low-paying jobs, letting her manage the money, and enjoying the support of our extended family, especially my mother's twin sister and her family. My father became unmoored by her loss. He was one of those men who could not live without a woman by his side. Less than a year after our mother's funeral, he found another woman. When my father decided to marry her, I couldn't imagine accepting another mother while I was grieving. Like a good first date, she quickly revealed her true colors. I became the 'Cinderella-Esque helper,' and my father never protected me from my stepmother's demands. When she discovered he had lied about his finances, a quick divorce followed. Relieved at first to have the father I once had, he took us to the movies, bought ice cream, and resumed the role of a good-enough parent for another short period.That was until he found yet another woman. I first met her at a Passover dinner at my aunt's home. In walked a woman in a leopard dress that hugged her body and showed too much cleavage. That was the beginning of the end of my father's effort to be a good parent. This woman did not want him to spend time with his children. Soon Dad stayed at Sylvia's apartment for a few nights at a time. Then, he moved his clothes to her place and left me -- then 11 -- to take care of our apartment, watch my younger sister, and use the weekly ten dollars he'd leave for me to buy food, do laundry, and purchase other things we might need. When he'd call or come back to our place, he rarely said anything kind. If the house were clean, he'd notice the Venetian blinds were dusty. If I asked him to stay home a few nights, he'd gather his things, slam the door, and walk out. I'll never forget when Sylvia asked him in front of us, 'Stan, tell the girls who matters more to you, them or me?' His response to us was a sly wink after he said to her, 'You do, of course.' When my aunt brought him to family court on charges of negligence, it was his word against our family's testimony. My only parent was given the option to let us live with relatives or to send us to foster care. He chose to send us to live with strangers. That choice should have spoken volumes about his lack of concern for our welfare. His promise to visit after leaving us at a children's group home never materialized. When, after four months, we were sent to a foster home, I dared to hope for some parental warmth and affection. That dream never came to pass. The rules were different for my foster parents' daughters than for us. My foster mother would take her teen daughters shopping, not us. They could eat whatever they wanted; we were never to eat the last of any remaining food. My foster parents never oversaw my homework, never attended parent-teacher meetings, and didn't bother to attend my high school graduation. They had told us, 'You have to find another place to live after graduation. Our family is going on a vacation.' During the five-plus years I lived there, my father would call a few times a month. Those calls were rarely easy. He'd berate me if I didn't write a letter or if there was a smudge on a page when I did write. When he demanded that I watch my younger sister, I remember replying, 'Dad, that is what our foster parents are supposed to do.' When he said, 'I don't want strangers watching over her,' I was stunned. What did he think he chose for us? I can't count how many times I left his calls in tears. He'd say so many hurtful things to me, with Sylvia goading him on in the background. Although I received little parental guidance or love in my foster home, my foster parents were not physically or verbally abusive toward us. I had friends; I found parental surrogates in my best friend's parents and in two guidance counselors who helped me find my way to college. When my father tried to stop me from attending the college of my dreams by threatening to sue the school if they accepted me, I called the school and said I'd do the same when I turned 18 if they didn't. I should not have been surprised by my father's ongoing drive to control my life, no matter how distant he was. I called my father, something I'd rarely done. I finally raised my voice, and he refused to respond. I would later discover that would be the last time we ever spoke. He had chosen another family. I still wonder, but I will never know, because I had no choice, whether a foster home devoid of affection, where foster parents provide only custodial care, may have been better than living with my father. Leave a comment Share Subscribe now