Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home. Casey Watson

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      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

       Dedication

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Epilogue

       Exclusive sample chapter

       Acknowledgements

       Casey Watson

       About the Publisher

       Chapter 1

      They always say a change is as good as a rest, don’t they? And let’s face it, who wants to put their feet up and do nothing all day long? Not me.

      Which was just as well. It was mid-August, a time of year where rest tends to be high on the agenda, but as I hefted my number one grandson from his car seat, my principal thought was ‘fat chance’.

      I didn’t like to admit it, because at forty-three I was young for a granny, but four hours in town with my daughter Riley and her two little ones had exhausted me. Not that I hadn’t asked for it. I’d been itching to spend more time with Levi and Jackson, so I had no business moaning and groaning about it. And besides, I well remembered how tiring it was being a young mum with two little ones to run around after; with Levi almost three now and Jackson just six months old, Riley had her work cut out.

      And I remembered how tiring childcare could be better than most grannies, maybe. We’d just said goodbye to our last foster children, and though at ten and seven Ashton and Olivia hadn’t exactly been toddlers, they had certainly been as challenging as little ones. As with all the kids we took, these had been profoundly damaged children, so caring for them had definitely taken its toll.

      ‘God, I could kill for a coffee,’ I told Riley as we got the kids indoors and settled them in the living room with some toys.

      ‘You sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with the drinks.’ But almost as soon as I’d lowered myself and the baby into an armchair with a picture book, the phone rang. Levi shot to his feet.

      Which meant I had to be quick. He was three now and his most favourite thing at the moment was to chat on the phone. Needless to say, he beat me to it.

      ‘Hiya!’ he was babbling into the receiver. ‘Hiya! Lub you!’ Then his usual follow-up. ‘Okay, then. Byeee!’

      I gently prised the receiver from him, despite his indignant protests, and hoped whoever was on the end hadn’t already hung up. Happily he hadn’t – it was John Fulshaw, our fostering-agency link worker – though he’d been about to. ‘Thought I’d dialled a wrong number,’ he chuckled. ‘Either that or you were doing a bit of moonlighting. Thought you’d wanted a break!’

      ‘It’s Levi,’ I told him. ‘And this is my break. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

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