Cruel to Be Kind: Part 3 of 3: Saying no can save a child’s life. Cathy Glass
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Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
HarperElement
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First published by HarperElement 2017
FIRST EDITION
© Cathy Glass 2017
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photograph © Iwona Podlasińska/Arcangel Images (boy, posed by a model)
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008252007
Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008252069
Version: 2017-10-10
Contents
Chapter Seventeen: Abused Child
Chapter Eighteen: Reporting Concerns
Chapter Nineteen: When Will I See Mummy Again?
Chapter Twenty: Comfort Eating
Chapter Twenty-One: Unexpected Turn of Events
Chapter Twenty-Two: Sea Otters Hold Hands
Chapter Twenty-Three: Very Poorly
Chapter Twenty-Four: Tell Max I Love Him
Chapter Twenty-Five: Bittersweet
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Cruel to be Kind
Suggested topics for reading-group discussion
Chapter Seventeen
Their front door was opened unusually by Caz. Leaning heavily on her crutches, her mobility apparently no better than the last time I’d seen her, she was clearly in a lot of discomfort. ‘Hi, Mum,’ Max said, offering up the box of fruit.
‘Put them in the kitchen, will you?’ she said. ‘I haven’t got any hands free.’
‘How are you?’ I asked. Max disappeared into the darkness of the hall.
‘Not good,’ Caz said, grimacing.
‘Oh dear. What’s the matter?’
‘Everything,’ she sighed. ‘But I won’t keep you. You’ve got your kids waiting.’
‘Actually, I haven’t,’ I said. ‘They’re spending a few days with their grandparents.’
‘Do you want to come in then?’ she asked in the same despondent tone.
‘Yes.’ I smiled, pleased that I was being asked in and Caz appeared to be making an effort to get along with me. I waited on the doorstep as she awkwardly turned, easing her crutches around in little jolts until she was facing down the hall.
‘Shut the door behind you, will you?’ she said. I did as she asked and with no natural light the hall became darker still. ‘Light bulb’s gone,’ she said. ‘I can’t get up there to change it.’
‘Is no one else in?’ I asked.
‘They’re all out. Could have done with resting myself. My feet are killing me.’
‘Oh dear,’ I sympathized. ‘You should have phoned me – we could have cancelled contact tonight.’
‘Not likely! And let that social worker think I’m not coping? Quickest way to lose your kids, I’d say.’
We were now in their open-plan living room, which smelt of cigarette smoke despite the window being wide open. A large plasma-screen television stood against one wall with a sofa and two armchairs grouped in front of it. A kitchen area at the other end of the room was separated by a Formica-topped breakfast bar. I could now understand why Max went to his room to read; it was impossible to have privacy or escape from the television in this room. The television was on now, its bright