D.P. (Dependency Proceedings) 22841-16

Liat knew exactly what she wanted: which pants, which size, which color. She knew how to try them on, ask, and manage independently, even though she hadn't been to a mall in almost a year. With striking self-awareness, she remarked: 'I know I act too adult. I need to learn to be a child, too.'

Then she spoke about her mother, who promised to take her shopping but never showed up. 'I was deeply disappointed,' she said, 'not just because she didn't come, but because she didn't even bother to let me know she couldn't make it.' The kind of consideration adults usually demand from children.

She described her strain with her mother, who never initiated contact, making initiated calls complex and painful. Liat expressed a wish for her mother to change. I told her her mother might change or might not, that it was okay to feel angry and disappointed, and above all, that it wasn't her job to understand her mother.

Liat also shared her father's cognitive decline, whom she cared for until welfare intervened. Initially reluctant to go to a youth village, her father convinced her. Now she misses the food he used to cook for her.

When foster care was raised, Liat resisted. She loved the youth village, the gardens, the animals, the staff, her friends, and the comfort of being surrounded by peers in similar circumstances. It is understandable why joining a stranger's family sounded far more terrifying than staying among peers.

A few weeks later, she agreed to meet the foster family. When we met on a scorching day, I bought her ice cream, and she admitted she liked them and that they liked her too. Leaving the youth village saddened her, but she was ready to give the family a chance and even felt excited about her first weekend with them.

Years later, she became an integral part of that family. It doesn't always happen this way, but when it does, it feels like one of the world's quiet wonders.