Packing the last of my things into a suitcase, there was a knock at my bedroom door.
‘Ready?’ my social worker asked.
‘Ready,’ I smiled.
Taking one last glance at my childhood home, I headed out of the door and didn’t look back. Aged 14, I was being placed into foster care.
But while some kids might have been scared, I felt excited.
I loved my mum, but she struggled with alcohol addiction and mental health difficulties. I’d been used to fending for myself from a young age – at times it felt like I was parenting Mum – and I was excited to live with a family who would take care of me.
Seeing my friends at school with their loving families, I wanted that stability.
But it was scary, too – I didn’t know what they would be like, or what the family dynamics would be like.
Pulling up outside the house, I took a deep breath as I went and knocked on the door.
