S
tanding by the side of my car, the chill of the evening starting to set in as I watched a mother strap Millie Glass her child into the backseat, I shivered, not from the night air, but from the weight of the situation. Hours earlier, we had been the ‘applicant’ and ‘defendant’ in a courtroom, but now the enormity of the order granted was evident. WHILST SHE ATTEMPTED TO SMILE AT HER CHILD THROUGH HER TEARS, I FOUND MYSELF BITING BACK MY OWN. There was no seminar that could
possibly have prepared me for these situations. There’s a clear direction in our ethical standards that we should demonstrate compassion, and provide an empathetic response. But in reality, not one thing I could say would lessen the pain of that moment. I couldn’t even reach out to offer a consoling touch. I was doing the right thing, as far as my professional duty was concerned. The judge saw it that way, the evidencebase supported it, and I’d also felt the same when I was writing my social work evidence template and putting together an interim care plan. But away from the courtroom and the words on paper, and instead looking at the grief on a mother’s face, you do start to question whether the argument
that you were ‘acting in the child’s best interests’ is really as valid as you claimed. Because ‘doing the right thing’ couldn’t feel closer to doing the wrong thing when recognising the role we have in causing that pain. DESPITE ALL OF OUR DIFFERENCES, SHE’S A MOTHER, AND I’M NOT; SHE’S FIGHTING FOR HER CHILD TO BE IN HER CARE, AND I’M ADVOCATING TO THE CONTRARY. We were united as two people who just wanted to do the right thing. I couldn’t help but wish that we could agree on the same ‘right thing’ to do. I also wished that the changes made sporadically could have been sustained. There was six months of early help support, a year of child
