and praise, and wither from emotional neglect.
‘Good boy,’ I said, smiling at him, and he took my hand.
Outside, I asked him if he’d had a nice time and he said, ‘Yes,’ although his voice was flat. I then asked him if he would like to invite a friend from school home for tea one afternoon, and he shrugged gloomily. ‘Think about it,’ I said. But I was beginning to wonder if Oskar was depressed. It was relatively unusual for a child of his age to be depressed, but it was something I would raise with his social worker. Some children are referred to CAMHS (Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services) for therapy when they come into care.
On Wednesday the phone call to Roksana was no better or worse than the previous ones. It was very short and uninspiring, and Oskar responded to his mother’s questions with ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or a shrug, which of course she couldn’t see. I prompted him with some topics he could talk to her about, but with the phone on speaker Roksana could hear me and said, ‘It’s OK if he doesn’t want to talk,’ and she said goodbye.
After dinner that evening I took out Oskar’s review form and explained to him what the review was all about, then we sat at the table in the kitchen-diner to complete it. He could read some of the questions and his writing was about average for a six-year-old. Some of the questions had a choice of emojis and didn’t require a written answer. To begin with his responses were pretty much what I would have expected of him.
How do you feel most of the time? He circled the emoji with a sad face.
Would you like to know more about your past? ‘Don’t mind,’ he wrote.
Who is your social worker? ‘Andrew.’
Would you like to see more of them? ‘No.’
Who are your friends? Would you like to see more of them? ‘Don’t mind.’
If you have any problems, who do you talk to? ‘Miss Jordan.’
‘I hope you can talk to me too,’ I reminded Oskar, and he nodded.
Do you have any questions about what is going to happen in the future? Most children would put: ‘When can I go home?’ But to my astonishment Oskar wrote: ‘Can I stay with Cathy?’
I turned and looked at him carefully. ‘Do you want to stay with me?’ I asked. ‘Or is it you think that’s what I want to hear?’
‘No, it’s true,’ he said in a tiny voice.
‘Why?’
He didn’t reply but read the next question: Is there anything you would like to add?
He paused thoughtfully and then wrote: ‘I don’t want to go home.’
‘Can you write why you don’t want to go home?’ I asked. It’s often easier to write something painful than to say it.
He paused again and then wrote: ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Why isn’t it safe?’ I asked. ‘Write it down.’
‘No, I can’t tell you,’ he whispered, and concentrated on the next question.
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