A Case Worker Told Me To “Trust The Process” When My Foster Son Was Covered In Bruises,

The Marks of Injustice

My foster son told me the school bus assistant was hurting him and our caseworker said, “Kids that age bruise easy.”

When I showed her the photos again she rolled her eyes and said, “Maybe you’re not cut out for this.”

I just stared at her. That was nine months ago. Yesterday she opened a letter, went completely still, and hasn’t eaten since.

When I picked up my seven-year-old foster child from school he was pounding his fists against the car so hard I thought he’d break the window. I quickly turned on the car Bluetooth and played “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley.

He instantly calmed down. “Nailed it.”

“Daddy, why is life so hard?” he whispered.

I sighed. It was week three of calling our caseworker about him. Three weeks of bedwetting, self-injuring, and barely eating.

I caught him cradling his arm and when we got home he ran straight to his room. “Does your arm hurt?” “Leave me effing alone!” he yelled.

But it was too late. “I saw it.”

Purple fingerprints wrapped around his skinny arm. “Jaden, who did this to you?”

His eyes filled with tears. “If I tell on her,” she said, “I’ll get sent away.”

“Who said that? Who hurt you?” No answer.

I lunged at him for a hug. Once his crying subsided I used the greatest manipulation tactic known to mankind.

“Hey buddy. Tell you what, if you let me take a photo of your bruises I’ll take you for ice cream.” “Okay, Daddy. Thanks, Daddy.”

Even when I took photos of his injuries he kept smiling, blissfully unaware of how messed up the situation was. At least one of us was keeping our cool.

A System of Silence

The next morning I emailed the photos to our caseworker, Ms. Williams, with “urgent” in the subject line. It took five calls for her to finally answer.

“I understand your concern,” she said in that condescending HR voice I hated. “But kids that age bruise easily.”

“These are finger marks, Ms. Williams. Adult-sized finger marks.”

She sighed like I was wasting her time. “I already reviewed the photos with my supervisor, Ms. Brown, and the team.”

“Your team? Who exactly?” “The placement team,” she interrupted. “There’s no cause for alarm. You need to trust the process.”

My gut screamed BS. But what could I do? That weekend was hell. Two wet beds; Jaden throwing up Sunday night.

Monday morning when the school bus rolled up he literally tried to hide under the kitchen table. That’s when I decided it was time for me to man the fuck up and throw protocol out the window.

I drove straight to the DCFS building. “Excuse me, I’m here about Jaden.”

“Ms. Williams is unavailable,” the front desk woman mumbled without looking up.

“Then I need Ms. Brown, her supervisor. It’s an emergency.” The receptionist finally looked at me, clearly irritated.

Within minutes a silver-haired woman appeared studying Jaden as he pressed against my side. “Ms. Brown? I’m Jaden’s foster dad. Can you please tell me why our concerns have been dismissed?”

“I’m sorry. What concerns?” she asked.

I felt my face get hot. “You know, the photos from Friday showing the bruises that you and Ms. Williams reviewed.”

“Photos?” Her voice sharpened. “What photos? When were these sent?”

That’s when I showed her everything. The calls, the emails, the bruise photos timestamped Friday at 3:47 p.m.

Her jaw tightened with each swipe. “Ms. Williams told me you guys decided to dismiss it.”

She stopped and looked genuinely confused. “This is the first I’m hearing about it. Follow me to my office.”

The Investigation Begins

What she showed me on her office computer made me sick. Jaden’s digital file hadn’t been touched in six weeks, as if we’d never existed.

“Sweetheart,” Ms. Brown knelt eye-level with Jaden. “I know someone hurt you, but you’re safe here. Can you give me a name?”

He squeezed my hand tight and I squeezed it back tighter. I crossed my fingers that he’d tell the truth.

And I guess I crossed hard enough because that’s when he finally spilled. “Mrs. Sharon,” he whispered.

“She’s the school bus assistant on the bus. She squeezes and shakes kids who are bad; says foster kids who complain get sent somewhere worse.”

Ms. Brown wasted no time in grabbing her desk phone and making a call. “Deploy emergency response to Oakwood Elementary immediately. Route 47.”

The investigation unfolded with sickening efficiency. Seven children with similar marks.

Sharon Wheeler already had two previous complaints about physical classroom management. She’d been terrorizing foster kids specifically, knowing they’d be least likely to report. All covered up with her rich daddy’s money.

When all was said and done I figured firing Ms. Williams was a no-brainer, not just for my son but for all the kids who would come after.

But after calling for an update on her status of employment, I found out that Ms. Williams was not only kept on the job but also given a raise for effective stress management.

That’s when I realized my mom was right: If you want something done right, you truly have to do it yourself.

The Battle Lines Are Drawn

I sat in the DCFS parking lot for 20 minutes, my hands shaking as I Googled “whistleblower protection” on my phone.

Through the rearview mirror I watched Ms. Williams stroll out to her Mercedes, texting and laughing like she hadn’t just covered up child abuse. New designer shoes clicked against the pavement—red bottoms, the kind that cost more than most people’s rent.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt. Sharon Wheeler was probably sitting at home right now waiting for daddy’s lawyers to make this all go away, and Williams got a raise.