“But this was always the plan. We were only ever foster parents to Josh. My sister never wanted to give him up for good”

Levi’s dropping hints again, words and phrases and fragments of sentences. As if I don’t know what’s happening. As if I’m not watching a tsunami rear its ugly, deadly head over our lives.

As if any amount of warning could prepare me for the inconceivable.

“She got the job,” he mentions one day. Oh so casual. He doesn’t say who she is. I don’t ask.

“I spoke to her today,” he says, a week or two later. “She sounds good.”

I don’t answer. What should I say? That’s nice? Just wonderful? I’m so happy to hear?

“Batya,” Levi says eventually, cornering me in the laundry room so I can’t avoid the conversation anymore. “We need to talk.”

I throw a bunch of towels in the machine. “Now? But Josh is coming home soon.”

Levi sighs. “And then it’ll be supper time, and then I have a chavrusah, and then it’s too late at night, can’t it wait till tomorrow. Please, Batya, we need to deal with this, it’s not going to disappear if we pretend it’s not happening.”

I don’t care for logic right now, but his eyes are beseeching. I breathe once, very slow and deep. “Okay.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “Thank you. I know this is hard. But we need to discuss it.” He talks quickly, as if he’s worried I’m about to change my mind. “Marilyn’s calling me nearly every day. She wants to work things out, travel arrangements, make a transition timetable or something. Apparently her social worker suggested that.”

“A transition timetable.” I start pairing socks, mechanically. Match them up, fold together, twist into a ball, toss onto the pile.

“Yeah. Like he’ll go visit for the day, then overnight. The next week he’ll go for a few days... and eventually…” He coughs. “You know.”

Match. Fold. Twist. Toss. I throw the next pair of socks forcefully; it teeters off the pile and falls to the floor, disappearing behind the towels.

“She can’t do this,” I say desperately. “She can’t. Who says she’s stable enough? Has she even been formally assessed? How can she just turn up after eight years and ask for Josh back? It’s not even fair to him.”

Levi leans forward, palms upraised. Surrender. “But this was always the plan. We were only ever foster parents to Josh. My sister never wanted to give him up for good.”

“She didn’t care that much eight years ago,” I mutter.

His eyes flash. “She was ill, Batya! She was in the hospital, and it took a long time until she was stable enough to leave! And now it’s been a year that the medications are working, she hasn’t had a relapse in a long time, she’s got herself a job and is taking care of her apartment and she wants her son back. And she has every right to want him.”

The washing machine hums and spins, throwing around a multi-colored whirlpool. I stare into the glass until my eyes water.

“I know it’s hard,” Levi says again, placing a hand on the door handle. He doesn’t want me to slip out of this again. I glare.

Hard? What’s hard about giving up a son? It’s choking, it’s torture, it’s killing something inside of me. It’s ripping out my heart and throwing it into a raging ocean.

It’s not hard. It’s fathomless.

I look at Levi, his posture, the sadness in his eyes. How is he not fighting this? How is he taking it so calmly? We’re only the foster parents, we need to respect his mother’s wishes?

The laundry room is airless, stuffy, humid.

“Josh should be home, I should go downstairs,” I mumble. Levi’s hand slides off the handle, I wrench the door open and escape down the stairs.