Casey Watson - Mummy’s Little Helper - The heartrending true story of a young girl secretly caring for her severely disabled mother

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The fifth book from bestselling author and specialist foster carer Casey Watson.A recent census shows that there are at least 175,000 child carers in the UK, 13,000 of whom care for more than 50 hours a week. Many remain invisible to a system that would otherwise help them. Abigail is one of those children. This is her story.Ten-year-old Abigail has never known her father. Her mother, Sarah, has multiple sclerosis, and Abigail has been her carer since she was a toddler – shopping, cooking, cleaning and attending to her personal needs. When Sarah is rushed to hospital, suddenly this comes to the attention of the social services, and Abigail has nowhere to go.Though she doesn’t fit the usual profile of a child that specialist foster carers Casey and Mike Watson would take on, they are happy to step in and look after Abigail. It’s an emergency, after all – and all that’s needed is a loving temporary home, while social services look into how to support the family so that they can be reunited.But it soon becomes clear that this isn’t going to happen. Sarah’s MS is now at a very advanced stage, and the doctors are certain that there will no longer be periods of remission. Abigail’s emotional state starts to spiral out of control as she struggles to let go of the burden of responsibilities she has carried for so long.Sarah and Abigail insist that they do not need help, but with no other family to contact, social services are left with no choice but to find long-term care for Abigail, against their wishes. But Casey never gives up on a child in need, and she knows there must be another solution…Includes a sample chapter of Sunday Times bestseller Trafficked.

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Abigail, who was still clutching my hand, looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said, sounding almost painfully solemn. ‘But Mrs Watson? I think you need to put a net around it first. I’ve seen them on TV and you need those for very little people.’

Bless her, I thought, touched by her serious tone. ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘You’re right. And I never thought about that, love. I’ll have to mention it to Mike, won’t I? Good point. By the way, do you prefer to be called Abigail or Abby?’

Again, she seemed to need to think carefully before answering. ‘Well, my mummy calls me Abby, so I think I’d prefer that. Though my teachers call me Abigail, so I don’t suppose it matters. Whichever you want, really.’

She looked up at me, managed to find another half-smile from somewhere. ‘No contest, then,’ I said. ‘Abby it is.’

She didn’t seem to know what to do or say then, and seemed content to let me lead her on a short tour of the garden, while I did the bulk of the talking. Now clearly wasn’t the time to expect her to open up to me. She’d probably been bombarded with questions from the minute she’d been fetched from school and taken to the hospital. And I didn’t doubt her mind was very much still back there, with her poor mum. My heart went out to her. She must have felt as if she’d been abducted by aliens, which, in a practical sense, she sort of had. What I imagined she most needed was a distraction from the clamour of her fearful thoughts. ‘So,’ I told her, ‘I’m called Casey, okay? No “Mrs Watson”. And Mike, that great big man you just met in there? Well, he’s my husband. And what we do is look after children who, for whatever reason, can’t stay in their own homes for a bit. Did John explain all that to you? Why you’re here?’

Abigail nodded. It was growing dark now and I led us across to the bench seat on the patio. It was cold, but not wet, as it was partly sheltered by a fibre-glass lean-to. It was the only disappointment; a poor second to the wonderful conservatory we’d had in the last house. But it was functional, at least. And also temporary. Mike didn’t know it, but I fully intended to wait a few months, and then badger him mercilessly about getting us a new one. I patted the space beside me on the bench, and she obediently sat down, finally letting go of my hand.

‘So that’s what we’re going to do,’ I went on. ‘Take care of you. So you mustn’t worry about anything, okay? And the first thing we’re going to do is get things sorted so we can get you back to visit your mum as soon as possible –’

‘Tonight?’ she asked timidly. ‘I really need to make sure she’s okay.’

I shook my head. ‘Not tonight, I don’t think,’ I said gently. ‘But definitely this week. If not tomorrow, the next day. After school. We’ll make sure of that, don’t worry. We’ll fix it up with John and Bridget, before they go. And Mummy’ll be fine, you know. She’s in a safe place, and they’ll take really good care of her, just like we’re going to take really good care of you. Now then, how about that hot chocolate and a biscuit? They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to out here, won’t they? Hmm?’

I turned now, to look at her properly. The outside light had already picked out a shiny trail on her face, which marked where tears were slipping silently down her cheeks. The instinctive thing to do, as had been the case with holding out a hand to her, was to pull her towards me and hug her. It was as natural to me as breathing, as it would be to anyone. But with kids in care – particularly the long-term emotionally damaged kids we mostly dealt with – often that’s the last thing they need or want. Starved of normal human relationships, or, sometimes, all too familiar with dangerously inappropriate ones, they can find it almost impossible to empathise or be physical with the very people who most want to help them. But this was not that; this was a normal and clearly much-cherished little girl, who wanted nothing more keenly to be back with the mum who loved her. I scooped her into my arms and she sobbed hard against my chest, and as she did so I reflected that some good might come of this. Fingers crossed, they would soon sort out something workable for her mum’s care and, that done, she’d be able to enjoy at least some semblance of normality for what still remained of her childhood.

I had no reason to expect things to be otherwise at that point. Silly me. Is life ever that simple?

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