**Foster Son: We Dreamt of Happiness, but Found Indifference and Pain**
From the start of our marriage, Oliver and I longed for a child. Yet fate seemed determined to test us. Five pregnancies—each ending in heartbreak. Miscarriages at different stages, hospital rooms, doctors saying, “Don’t get your hopes up.” The specialists in Manchester could only shrug. Eventually, we realised we couldn’t wait any longer. Life was slipping by, and our home remained silent. We never heard a child’s laughter or the patter of tiny feet in the morning.
The decision came naturally. We filed for adoption. The waiting list for newborns was long—nearly a year. But when we got the call, it felt like a miracle. Jamie. A quiet, slightly fearful little boy with big eyes. Just one year old. We loved him instantly, wholeheartedly. Never once did we think of him as anything less than ours. He was our son. Wanted. Cherished.
Jamie grew up kind and obedient, but one thing always worried us—his refusal to study. No matter how much we encouraged or talked to him, nothing helped. He barely scraped through secondary school, then chose a teaching college himself. We sighed in relief—maybe he’d found his path. We stepped back, focusing on work, thinking he was old enough to take responsibility.
Then came the phone call. Straight to my work line.
“Your son hasn’t attended classes in weeks. He’s facing expulsion. No one will cover for him anymore,” the tutor said calmly.
Oliver rushed to the college. He talked, negotiated, smoothed things over. They gave Jamie another chance. We sat him down, and he nodded, promising to do better. It lasted two months.
The next time, they simply handed over his papers. No warning.
“Your son doesn’t just skip classes. He’s rude, aggressive, even threatened the principal. We won’t tolerate it,” they said. The tutor shook his head and asked us not to contact them again.
Now Jamie’s home. Seventeen. Won’t study. Won’t work. He spends all day on his phone, snapping if we ask anything of him. Recently, I realised—he’s started drinking. First, bottles hidden in the wardrobe, then the smell. We’ve tried talking. He listens in silence, then slams the door and walks out.
We took him to a therapist. A private clinic. Nothing. He sat with his arms crossed, stubbornly avoiding eye contact. The therapist admitted defeat. “It’s teenage rebellion, but with you—there’s a wall.” Three years at that wall, and we’re exhausted.
We don’t blame Jamie. But our hearts are breaking. We gave him everything—love, a home, warmth. Saved him from a system where he might have been forgotten. Now we feel powerless. He’s not ungrateful—he’s indifferent. That’s the worst part. It’s like he isn’t even here. We share a house, but we’re strangers.
What did we do wrong? Loved too much? Pushed too hard? Didn’t set enough boundaries? Or perhaps set too many?
I won’t give up. He’s our son. Not by blood, but by fate. Yet every day, he grows more distant, more irritable, colder. We fear we’ll lose him completely. That one day he’ll walk out—and never look back.
If you’ve been through this… if you know how to reach a child before it’s too late—tell us. I’ve stopped believing in therapists. I believe in people who’ve lived it.
We won’t surrender. But how?
*Sometimes love isn’t enough to bridge the gaps we didn’t know were there.*
