Of all the children I cared for, I had a soft spot for one child, a preteen. She howled during silent reading, stole fruit snacks from the kitchen and invented creative insults such as changing my name to “Poopaline.” She was as intelligent, caring and awkward as I’ve ever seen a person be.

And, of course, there was more — details I will not share here because they are violent and painful and belong only to her. Every foster child has a shadow story. Hers was as awful as they come and sometimes, so was she.

After spending eight years isolated from others, she struggled to make friends. Everyday activities — bathing, getting dressed and walking to school — were a source of conflict. She would refuse to get out of bed in the morning or try to run when asked to brush her teeth. Working with her took patience. Often, it was frustrating.

The rest of the time, she made me laugh. She believed in magic and found the mundane captivating. One afternoon on the playground, she pulled me along by the hand to follow the white streak of a jet plane. “If we follow it to the end,” she told me, “we’ll find a magic castle.”

One day, I sat in a conference room at Ryther while she met with a social worker who told her that she would be transitioning into a pre-adoptive home. The child listened from her seat on the floor, one hand wrapped around a yellow plastic horse, a favorite toy she carried everywhere.

“I want to write down questions for my forever family,” she said.

The social worker sighed as I handed over a pencil.

“O.K.,” the child said, “Write down: Will I have a bed? Will I have a pillow? Will I have sheets? Will I have blankets?” She pointed to the phone. “Can we call them to ask?”