Story One By Marie
When I first heard about the child who was going to be placed with me, the foster carer told me they were the most difficult child they had cared for in forty years of fostering. I raised this with my social worker, but I was told to ignore it, that the foster carer was “awkward,” and that I shouldn’t take their comments seriously. I was warned that introductions might be challenging because the child was “awkward,” and several social workers attended the introduction sessions. Even then, I was reassured that once the child was home and settled, things would improve.
Before placement, I was promised support: Theraplay, therapeutic input, post‑adoption services. None of it appeared. Nothing happened until around three months after the child moved in, and only because I kept asking for help when I was already at breaking point.
During introductions, the child was described as difficult, but again I was told it would get better once we were home. Within about four weeks of placement, the behaviour became impossible to ignore. There were extreme emotional outbursts, screaming, violence, controlling behaviour, and threats — including threats to kill me. I raised this with my social worker, but I was told to “give it time.”
As things escalated, I asked for urgent support. Around eight weeks in, I told my social worker I couldn’t cope and asked what the process was for ending the placement. I was told the behaviour was “normal” and that things would improve once the child started school.
I kept asking for the support I had been promised. About three months after placement, therapy was finally funded — but for me, not for the child. The therapist immediately recognised that the behaviour was extreme and said it was far more complex than typical adoption challenges, and too much for one person to manage alone.
Meanwhile, the child still wasn’t receiving meaningful support. When school started, the behaviour there was just as severe: emotional dysregulation, aggression, and incidents that left staff unsure how to manage. I kept asking for therapeutic help for the child, but the social worker said visiting was too far, and nothing changed.
Around six months in, parent‑child Theraplay finally began. The therapist said the child showed no signs of attachment and described the behaviour as highly controlling and complex.
Things continued to get worse. School contacted social services because they had never seen behaviour like this and didn’t know how to manage it. No effective intervention followed. At home, the incidents became frightening — including an attempt to set fire to the house. The child was suspended from school at five years old.
Throughout all of this, I felt dismissed and unsupported. I kept being reassured, but nothing practical happened. My concerns were minimised, and I felt like no one was listening.
After about seven months, I formally gave notice to end the placement. It took around seven weeks to find a foster placement. During that time, I wrote a detailed summary of the behaviour, and I was told that the level of need I described was part of the reason it was so difficult to find somewhere suitable.
My therapist later told me that ending the placement was the right decision, and that a child with this level of complexity should never have been placed with a single adopter. They described the whole situation as a “catalogue of systemic errors.”
Only after the disruption did I learn that the child had already experienced a previous failed adoption — something I had never been told before placement.
I feel I was misled and left without the support I needed. I raised concerns repeatedly, and nothing was done. I was reassured again and again while the situation became more dangerous and more unmanageable. The experience has had a huge impact on my wellbeing. I’m still off work, and I feel changed by everything that happened. I’m still trying to process it all.
Story two By Sally
When we first heard about Caleb and Gracie, we were told they were siblings who needed a stable home after a difficult start in life. We knew they had lived through instability, substance misuse, and domestic abuse. We knew they had been on child protection plans. We knew they had been removed after one arrived at school with unexplained bruising and the other was found alone in unsafe conditions. What we didn’t know was how much had been left out.
In foster care, both children had developmental delays, but the way this was described to us made everything sound manageable. We were told Caleb struggled with toileting, speech, and anger, but that he was generally content and adaptable. We were told Gracie was emotionally delayed but affectionate. We were reassured that the difficulties were minor, normal, and nothing to worry about.
Later, we learned that the paperwork didn’t match the reality. LAC review notes hinted at more serious incidents. The foster carer eventually admitted that Caleb’s behaviour had been far more challenging than anyone had documented. There had been violent outbursts. There had been restraint. There had been fear. None of this was shared with us before the children moved in.
We had been open about our own backgrounds. We had lived through domestic abuse ourselves, and we were clear that we could not safely manage high levels of violence. We prepared thoroughly—reading about trauma, child development, pre‑natal alcohol exposure. We did everything we could to be ready. Professionals told us there were no significant concerns. They told us the children were emotionally ready. They told us the behaviours were mild. We trusted them.
During introductions, the first cracks appeared. The foster carer made comments that didn’t match the reports. She mentioned needing to restrain Caleb. She mentioned violent outbursts, especially toward Gracie. She mentioned things we had never seen in any document. We saw flashes of anger—quick, intense, unpredictable. We tried to believe the professionals who said it was normal. But it didn’t feel normal.
Once the children moved in, the truth became impossible to ignore. Caleb’s aggression toward Gracie was constant and escalating. He pushed, hit, poured drinks over her, took her food, and tried to wake her at night by hitting her. He shouted that he hated her. He hit and pulled hair. He threw things. He broke things. One day, while Helen was feeding Gracie, he ran into the room, pushed the highchair over, shouted, hit, and pulled hair. Another time, Helen found him naked, walking around with a cutlery knife, moving toward Gracie. She managed to take the knife, but he pushed Gracie so hard she hit her head on a cabinet and was injured.
There were moments of dysregulation that came out of nowhere. He refused to wear a seatbelt. He urinated on the carpet. He bit, hit, pushed, threw things, broke things. Sometimes he sought affection only to bite or scratch. Gracie began to regress. She clung to us whenever her sibling was near. We became afraid to leave them alone together, even for a moment.
Eventually the foster carer admitted she had been asked to minimise what she shared with us. She had given notice because she couldn’t manage the behaviour, but was asked to delay it because we were ready to adopt.
We asked for help again and again. We raised concerns about the violence and the risk to Gracie. We were told Caleb was “just pushing boundaries.” We were told to be patient. Theraplay was mentioned but delayed. Parenting courses were offered but months away. Instead of support, we felt blamed. Professionals minimised our concerns and suggested the difficulties were caused by our parenting rather than the children’s needs.
When the placement finally broke down, we asked to keep Gracie. She had bonded with us. She was at risk from her sibling. We were told no. Both children were removed. A year later, Gracie was separated from Caleb anyway because the risk he posed was too high.
We had seen it from the beginning. We had said it from the beginning. But no one listened until it was too late.
Story 3 by Jasmine
When I look back at the adoption process, what strikes me most is how early the foundations were already cracked. The match felt driven more by cultural convenience than by the actual needs of the children. From the beginning, we were clear: we could manage moderate behavioural and emotional needs. What we were not told was that one child’s needs were far beyond that.
We were not given the full picture. The Child Permanence Report left out serious behaviours that the foster carer later described openly—screaming, throwing themselves on the floor, smearing bodily fluids, and repeatedly breaking their own glasses. When the same behaviours appeared in our home, escalating to attempts to break glasses and physical aggression, we realised we had been placed in a situation we had never agreed to. Only later did we find references to violent behaviour hidden in the Family Time book. That information should have been shared from the start.
Our agency’s risk assessment was based on incomplete documents and minimal foster‑carer input. No one pushed the local authority for clarity, even though we repeatedly asked for it. We were expected to answer detailed questions about the children without being given the knowledge to do so responsibly. Other professionals later confirmed that it is possible to request more information. Our social worker simply didn’t.
The process dragged on because of a legal challenge to the Placement Order. We were told Legal Aid wouldn’t be granted, then it was, and the case continued for months. That time could have been used to prepare us better, especially given the complexity of the child’s needs. I’ve worked with children with SEN since 2004. I’m trained in trauma and attachment. None of that was taken seriously.
When the matching panel finally happened, it lasted nearly four hours because reports were missing or out of date—some by more than six months. Key information from our PAR, including our clear boundaries around managing high levels of violence, was not presented. The decision was made on incomplete and inaccurate information. Our social worker should have asked for a deferral. They didn’t.
Throughout the process, our concerns were dismissed. When we reported threatening gestures, we were told the child had seen it on TV or in nursery. When we relayed disclosures about being hit, we were told not to listen because the children were “only young.” There was no professional curiosity, no willingness to seek external advice. We were treated as if we didn’t understand trauma, even though many of the professionals advising us had never worked directly with trauma‑related behaviours themselves.
Once the placement began, it became obvious that the child’s developmental abilities did not match the descriptions we had been given. Tasks that were supposedly strengths—writing, cutting, building—were not possible. The child functioned at a much younger developmental level, except in maths. The behaviour toward the sibling was controlling, not caring. Aggression increased as independence grew. Within three weeks, we requested a child psychologist. The psychologist who had assessed the children earlier agreed we should receive support. The matching panel had said the same. Yet nothing happened.
The aggression escalated further. Before this, the violence had been directed at the sibling. But after the child kicked another child in the chest at school, the aggression turned toward us as well. We raised urgent concerns. Instead of support, we were encouraged to proceed with the Adoption Order, as if permanence alone would solve the problem. Our requests for help were ignored.
We followed the advice of a clinical psychologist provided through our agency, but the strategies didn’t work because the child had not formed a secure attachment—something confirmed in earlier assessments. When we trusted our own intuition, we often had better results than when we followed professional guidance.
We also felt judged. Assumptions were made about us based on our backgrounds. My professional experience was dismissed. It became clear that we were not being treated with respect.
In May, after a visit from the children’s social worker, a serious incident occurred in which one of us was bitten hard enough to require police involvement. The police report confirmed there were no safeguarding concerns and that the children were well cared for. The incident happened shortly after we formally requested more support.
By June, my mental and physical health had deteriorated. A multi‑agency meeting offered some guidance, but it felt like another conversation about process rather than real help. Our GP contacted the children’s social worker, who confirmed there were no safeguarding concerns and that the children would remain with us. We asked to delay Annex A. Later, we discovered that steps had been taken to withdraw our court application without our consent. The social worker had no legal right to do that.
After a prolonged and severe incident of violence, we contacted emergency social services. We were told to call the police. Unable to reach the children’s social worker, we sent a message explaining that we could not continue with the adoption of one child but wished to proceed with the other. No one contacted us immediately. At the next meeting, our concerns about trauma were dismissed. We were told that professionals already knew the source of the trauma and didn’t need our input. Shortly afterwards, the children were removed.
We were told, in front of one child, that we would have video calls, phone calls, and photos. None of that happened. Communication stopped. The child who had stopped wetting themselves in our home began wetting again in foster care. We had tried to explain that their individual needs were not being considered. No one listened.
The children were placed with an English‑speaking foster family despite being Polish‑speaking. This added another layer of trauma. One child experienced a name change and rejection of cultural identity. We know of other cases where cultural support was provided. It wasn’t here.
When we wrote directly to the court, our solicitor advised requesting a psychological assessment. This was met with hostility. In a meeting, we were accused of not understanding trauma and not being therapeutic parents. We explained that the assessment was to ensure the children received the right support, wherever they lived. Instead of listening, the professionals raised their voices and told us they would not support us adopting any child. It felt like an attempt to cover their mistakes.
At the hearing, accusations were sent by email on the same day. The judge dismissed them immediately. He expressed clear dissatisfaction with the local authority and said openly that they were not experts. He ordered a psychological assessment, which took place in September 2025, after the children had been removed. The psychologist placed responsibility on the social workers’ poor advice and lack of support. The judge noted that the children should not have been put forward for adoption without a clearer understanding of their needs and confirmed that domestic violence had been present in the birth home.
Throughout the placement, we sought informal advice from a child psychologist. Information we shared with professionals was misrepresented or ignored. Freedom of Information documents later revealed inaccuracies and omissions. Despite police confirmation that there were no safeguarding concerns, the agency initiated an investigation into allegations against us.
What we want now is simple: acknowledgment of the mistakes made, recognition of the harm caused, and a fair opportunity to adopt again. We acted consistently, transparently, and in the best interests of the children. The system around us did not.
— Jasmine