Maybe Baby, Part 2: Confusion Fueled by Gaslight

For part 1, visit Fostered and Flustered: Maybe Baby - Trust Your Gut

Keeping the Peace

After the emotional whiplash caused by the sudden change in plans, we dropped the girls off. We made sure Mom knew they hadn't had a proper dinner, but we sure did stock them up on snacks. There were hugs and reminders, extra snuggles for little Daisy, and reassurances all around. We were so incredibly frustrated by the turn of events that it was hard to hide our emotions. But for the sake of the girls and for the sake of peace, we did just that.

Once the girls were out of the car, and we had seen them "safely" enter the trailer, I let out a sigh - part relief and part devastation. The relief came from unmasking. Alone, just us two in the car, we could finally dissect what had transpired over the last two hours or so. What the actual f***? I checked in with Holly. Was I the crazy one? Did I miss something? Nope. I hadn't. This had just played out in real time. We could finally debrief and form a plan for picking the girls back up. The devastating part of all of this was that we were starting to see the cracks in the facade, but was it our place to point them out? We'd been told so many times we were there to facilitate unification (a phrase I choose deliberately—“reunification” doesn’t feel right in this case). Addressing concerns could be seen as anti-unification, which could result in the girls being removed from our care.

The Text Exchange

I texted their mom as we drove away. Not about the baby, even though I was DYING to find out more. I knew we would get the scoop when we picked the girls up. "Patience is a virtue" I reminded myself. I reminded her that Sunday was Easter and the girls had been looking forward to our family plans for weeks (before any decisions were made in court).

Plans that included Alexa’s biological dad and grandparents. Plans they knew by heart: Easter Bunny in the morning, egg hunt in the yard, brunch by 11:00.

I kept it simple and kind. “Just a heads up—we’ll need to pick the girls up by 10:00 on Sunday so we can make it all work.”

She replied, “I’ll decide when they get picked up.”

Oof. Deep breath Jenn, deep breath!

Knowing our role in this chapter of their story—facilitators of unification—I didn’t push. I responded with grace. “Totally okay. Just let us know what time works better for you, and we’ll make it happen.”

And then... nothing.

The Silence Was Deafening

The silence was deafening.

I sent multiple messages on Saturday. Nothing. Again, early Sunday morning. Still nothing. The silence was deafening. I had never in my life called the police for a welfare check, but for the first time, I was considering it. This wasn’t just a parenting frustration—it was a safety concern at this point. At what point exactly does our responsibility for their safety trump the decisions of their biological mother? It had now been 36 hours since we’d last heard from the person responsible for our girls. Thirty-six hours of silence while two kids sat in a trailer somewhere, maybe wondering where we were. Maybe not. That was the worst part—not knowing what they were being told. Not knowing if they were okay. Not knowing what not knowing was doing to their sense of safety.

I started googling the non-emergency number for a welfare check in her county. I’d never made one before, but I was close. This didn’t feel like a miscommunication. It felt like a reach for power and control at best. And the girls were in the middle of it.

As we drove to pick up our Easter meal (because, what else could we do?), Holly’s phone rang. It was her brother. Please don’t let him be canceling, I thought. Alexa had been so excited to see him. To show her dad off to the neighborhood kids. To sit beside her dad at the table. I braced myself.

But he wasn’t canceling. He was confused.

“Where are you guys?” he asked.

We told him, then added, “We’re still waiting to hear from the girls’ mom. We don’t even know if they’re coming.”

And that’s when he said it.

“That’s why I’m calling.”

Turns out, she had called him. Told him she didn’t know where we were and that she “didn’t feel comfortable” reaching out to us. Then told him she had to leave and we needed to come get the girls—now.

I checked my texts again to be sure. No attitude. No sarcasm. Just warmth. Just offers to help. What had made her uncomfortable? We didn’t have time to figure it out.

The Pickup

We dropped everything. Sped over - a 45-minute drive cut down to 30 but feeling like a lifetime. And there they were—standing outside, with tired eyes and tangled hair and disappointment they didn’t know how to name.

“Mom said you were supposed to come first thing this morning,” Alexa said, her voice quiet. “Why are you so late? We thought you weren’t coming back.”

I wanted to cry.

Instead, we said what we could. “We would never leave you. I’m so sorry you were scared.”

They climbed in, and we shifted gears. “Are you excited to see what the Easter Bunny left?”

They nodded. But something had changed.

They didn’t mention the baby. Not a word. Not a peep. The baby we had confirmed existed. The baby who was supposed to be a new chapter in their lives. Nothing.

And that’s when it hit me. They... still... didn't... know! But HOW?

A Silent Lesson

In foster care, the scariest thing isn’t chaos. It’s silence.

Silence is what happens when kids are told one thing, but experience another. When adults play games with time, control, and connection—and children are the ones who pay the price.

It’s what happens when emotional and psychological safety are promised in theory, but withheld in practice.

That weekend wasn’t about a baby. It wasn't about the Easter Bunny or the egg hunt. It was about whether these girls could count on someone—anyone—to follow through.

We spent the rest of the day reminding them they could.