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ELENA CAME THAT AFTERNOON

My house looked destroyed.

Toys everywhere.

Laundry on the couch.

One sock hanging from the ceiling fan.

I still don’t know how.

Elena walked in.

Looked around.

Then looked at me.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“When did you last sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

She frowned.

I knew that look.

“You’re not taking enough help.”

“I’m fine.”

She laughed.

Actual laughter.

“You know who says that?”

“Who?”

“Every foster parent ten minutes before a breakdown.”

“I can handle it.”

“That isn’t the goal.”

I became defensive.

“If I tell the court I need more help, they’ll think I can’t do this.”

Elena stared at me.

Then said:

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The hero problem.”

“I don’t have a hero problem.”

“You absolutely have a hero problem.”

She sat at my kitchen table.

“You think because nobody saved your sibling group, you have to save this one alone.”

I said nothing.

“You don’t.”

“I’m the placement.”

“Yes.”

“Not the entire support system.”

She leaned forward.

“If you refuse help, I will recommend against permanency.”

That terrified me.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

“Why?”

“Because five children do not need another adult who destroys himself trying to prove he won’t leave.”

That sentence hurt.

Because she was right.

So I accepted help.