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

The Grocery Store Confrontation

I drove to the grocery store needing milk and some space to think. The automatic doors whooshed open and there she was—Ms. Williams, standing in the wine aisle examining a bottle of champagne.

My stomach dropped. She spotted me before I could turn away, her lips curled into that same condescending smile from our phone calls.

She placed the champagne in her cart with deliberate slowness, then pushed it toward me. Other shoppers moved around us, oblivious to the tension.

She stopped right beside me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—expensive, like everything else about her. She tilted her head, voice dripping with fake concern.

The words came out smooth, practiced, something about Jaden doing well. The question mark at the end felt like a knife twisting.

My mouth went dry. The words tumbled out before I could stop them—shaky, uncertain. Not at all the confrontation I’d imagined.

I told her I knew what she did. Her expression shifted instantly.

Voice rising, she asked if I was threatening a state employee. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

Heads turned. A security guard near the entrance straightened up, hand moving to his radio.

I stood there frozen as she played victim. The other shoppers stared at me like I was some unhinged man harassing a woman.

She dabbed at her eyes even though there were no tears. The security guard started walking over.

I left without the milk. My phone buzzed before I even made it home.

Retaliation and Reputation

A text from the foster care coordinator: Ms. Williams had already filed a report about my concerning behavior. They wanted to know if I needed stress management resources.

I threw my phone on the passenger seat and punched the steering wheel. Jaden would be home from school soon and I needed to pull myself together.

But the rage kept building. She turned me into the bad guy in less than an hour.

The next morning brought a choice. Williams would be at her office until noon.

I could confront her there, demand answers, make her admit what she’d done, or I could take Jaden to his therapy appointment—the one we’d waited six weeks for.

I sat at the kitchen table watching Jaden eat cereal. He’d slept through the night for once. No wet sheets, no nightmares about the bus.

Williams had started wearing some kind of “victim solidarity” bracelet lately. I’d noticed it during our last in-person meeting. She kept rubbing it unconsciously whenever someone mentioned accountability.

Jaden needed therapy more than I needed revenge. We went to the appointment.

While I sat in that waiting room Williams sent emails. By the time we got home my phone had blown up.

Three other foster parents had forwarded me her message. I was “unstable.” I was “targeting hardworking caseworkers.”

She detached helpful resources about managing stress during difficult placements. Then everything hit at once.

The Pressure Mounts

Jaden’s night terrors came back with a vengeance—screaming about the bus, about “Ms. and Sharon,” about being sent away.

The school called about a meeting, something about his accommodation request for a different bus route. They needed to discuss options.

And Williams scheduled a routine home inspection for the end of the week. I spent two days preparing for that inspection.

Scrubbing baseboards, organizing closets, making sure every outlet had safety covers. Even though Jaden was seven, his room needed to be perfect.

I pulled his mattress up to change the sheets and found them: drawings hidden between the mattress and bed frame. Pictures of the bus. Stick figures with tears.

One bigger figure with angry eyes and grabbing hands. “Ms. Sharon” labeled in shaky handwriting. Evidence he’d been trying to tell us for weeks.

I yanked too hard. The papers tore down the middle.

My perfectionism, my need to make everything inspection-ready, had just destroyed the proof of what he’d been through. I sat on his bedroom floor holding the ripped drawings and wanted to scream.

Williams had her first panic attack the next day. I heard about it from another foster parent at pickup.

Sharon Wheeler’s arrest had made the news. Not the abuse part, of course—just that a school employee had been arrested for “inappropriate discipline.”

But Williams knew. During the staff meeting she’d gone white as a sheet and excused herself. Spent 20 minutes in the bathroom.

Good. Let her sweat.

But then Jaden started defending her. We were at McDonald’s for dinner because I’d been too exhausted to cook.

He picked at his nuggets and mentioned how Ms. Williams had brought him McDonald’s once when I was late to a visit. She’d been nice then.

I tried to explain without badmouthing her. Kids need to trust the system even when the system fails them.

But inside I was seething. She’d bought my kid’s loyalty with a Happy Meal.

Digital Secrets and Social Smears

Two days later I saw my chance. Williams had parked at the coffee shop, windows cracked for air.

Well, nothing quite says “I’ve got this parenting thing down” like bribing your traumatized kid with ice cream to photograph his bruises. Honestly though, sometimes you just got to work with what works. And hey, at least someone got to smile that day.

Her personal calendar was right there on the passenger seat. I could see it from the sidewalk.

“SW Settlement – Stay quiet” written in her neat handwriting. “Southwest Sharon Wheeler.” Evidence of the coverup right there in blue ink.

But her car was locked. Getting that calendar would mean breaking the window in broad daylight on Main Street.

I pulled out my phone instead, trying to zoom in for a photo through the window glare. That’s when my neighbor walked by—Victoria something.

She lived three houses down and ran the neighborhood Facebook page. She saw me crouched by Williams’ car, phone out, and her face went through about six different expressions—none of them good.

She speed-walked away, already pulling out her own phone. By evening the Nextdoor post was up.

“Suspicious man stalking woman at coffee shop. Be aware.” Complete with a blurry photo of me by the car.

The comments were already piling up. “Probably a stalker.” “This is why I carry mace.” “Anyone know who the poor woman is?”

Jaden’s biological aunt called the next morning. She’d been working on a custody petition, trying to get him and his siblings back together.

Needed Williams’ recommendation for the court. Suddenly she had concerns about my behavior. Heard I’d been acting erratic.

Maybe Jaden wasn’t in the most stable placement after all. My sister’s text came an hour later.

She lived two states away but had somehow already heard. The family group chat was buzzing. “This sounds just like when you got obsessed with mom’s care home,” she wrote. “Remember how that ended?”

I remembered. I’d spent six months documenting their negligence, filed complaints, made enemies. In the end they’d moved Mom to a different facility just to shut me up, and the neglect had continued there too.

The foster parent Facebook group exploded next. Every comment I made got screenshotted and forwarded to Williams’ supervisor.

Questions about other caseworkers’ conduct, asking if anyone else had experienced cover-ups. They painted me as paranoid, aggressive, dangerous.

Other foster parents started reporting me. Said I’d been harassing them with aggressive questions about their caseworkers, making them uncomfortable, creating a hostile environment in support group meetings.

Williams still controlled Jaden’s medical records. The trauma specialist we’d been referred to couldn’t see him without her authorization.

She delayed it, citing “concerns about the home environment.” The old therapy note still called her a “caring advocate who always puts children first.”