In November 2023, our world shifted. One of our children came home—just 24 hours’ notice, no preparation, no gentle transition. Just… “she’s coming back.” We didn’t question it. We embraced it. We opened our arms, our home, and our hearts, knowing full well the path ahead wouldn’t be easy.
She was 14. So much had happened in her life—and ours. The bond needed rebuilding. There were wounds that time hadn’t healed, and new versions of all of us trying to fit together again. We knew there’d be a honeymoon period. We knew the real work would come after. But we were ready. We wanted this more than anything.
There were strict conditions placed on us—rules from those who still shared parental responsibility. Some felt unnecessary. Some felt cold. But we followed them. We did what we were told, even when it made our daughter angry or confused. We walked on eggshells, terrified of doing anything wrong. And in that fear, we leaned too far into friendship. But we also laughed, healed, and rediscovered one another. She had changed. So had we. And for a while, it was beautiful.
Because she wasn’t allowed to be alone or go out, we filled our days with connection—overnight stays, spontaneous adventures, horse riding, duvet days and movie nights. We gave her every second we could.
Then we did something brave: we applied to discharge the care order. We asked for more contact with her siblings. Legal aid was granted. Court was on the calendar. An updated parenting assessment—something we had begged for—was finally ordered. It felt like maybe, just maybe, things were shifting.
But around the same time, something changed in her. She stopped eating. Her health declined fast. We were scared. We begged for help. We followed every piece of advice—restricting things further, doing everything we could to get her stable. And when we stepped into being parents, not friends, she pushed back hard. Who could blame her?
We passed the assessment. Every bit of effort, every sacrifice—it was acknowledged. We were told: you’ve done it. Discharge is the right path. We believed it.
Then court day arrived.
What started as a 10am hearing became a 2pm waiting game. And then, at 1:55pm, everything fell apart. She had said something. We weren’t told what. But they were removing her. No warning. No goodbye. Just… gone. I had to tell her over the phone. She screamed. Then silence.
We didn’t get answers for a week. When they came, they felt like a slap. The reasons were… petty. An independent social worker said they weren’t worth the paper they were written on. We were being judged for things like one of us playing video games, the other taking a nap after a 4am shift, not letting her go to youth club without food in her stomach—something we were literally advised to do. No food, no life, they said.
Then March came. Another court date. Another decision made without us truly being heard. They ruled she’d stay in care. Against our wishes. Against hers. But we held onto hope for our other children.
Our son has begged—begged—to come home. For months. He’s cried, pleaded, written it in every way he knows how. Yet in court, it was twisted. Professionals said he didn’t want to come home. But there was proof otherwise. A judge agreed and ordered a contested hearing.
That hearing came. We walked in ready to fight, armed with truth and love. We left 15 minutes later, dismissed by a different judge who told us to come back in July.
As for our daughter—we’ve since found out all she wanted was a break. Just some respite. Something she had been promised and never got. She didn’t know that asking for space would lead to permanent removal.
Now she’s asking to come back. She’s ready. And the response from those in charge? “It’s too dangerous.”
How? Why? What more can we do?
We’ve followed every rule. Jumped through every hoop. Passed every test. And yet, we are still here—fighting against a wall that refuses to listen, refuses to explain, refuses to see us.
This isn’t the full story. It runs deeper than I can say right now. But this is where we are—still in court, still fighting, still loving them with everything we have, even if no one else believes that should be enough.
Even when it feels like the system has forgotten your humanity, your truth still matters. Your voice is stronger than silence. And your love—no matter how dismissed—is real, powerful, and worth fighting for.
Keep going.
Not because it’s easy.
But because they’re worth it—and so are you.
thegirlspeaks.uk 