“I’m a happy Catholic,” she firmly says to Thomas and me, clearly mistaking us for proselytizers. “But I’m so glad you’ve found comfort in your religion.” She starts to close the door.

“Ms. Hiddleston? We’re not from a religious group,” Thomas says. He holds out his business card. “I’m Thomas Holmes, a reporter with the L.A. Times. I’m doing a story about the heroes of Oregon’s foster care system and your name came up as one of the most dedicated caseworkers.”

Heidi reads the business card, and a slow smile spreads across her face. “Well, gosh, I’ve been retired for eighteen years. Hard to believe anyone remembers me!”

“They do,” Thomas says. “Might we come in, chat for a few minutes?”

Heidi glances at our car in the driveway. Moose’s head pokes out of the window. She plucks at her gloves, looks at me, and says, “Well. You’ve caught me in the middle of spring cleaning.”

She doesn’t recognize me. Why would she? It was almost two decades ago and I was a little kid, one of dozens of cases she juggled. My nerves buzz like a beehive that’s been kicked. It’s hard to think, focus. This woman knows everything.

Thomas says, “We should’ve called. Apologies. This is my girlfriend, Syl. I promised her and our dog a day at the beach but since you were on the way, she was game to stop in case you might be willing to talk about the great work you’ve done.”

“Well . . . if it’ll shine the light on the importance of those dedicated to foster children,” Heidi says and peels off her gloves, “then of course I can spare a few minutes. Goodness, it’s not like there’s a timeline for housework, but I do like to keep a schedule, otherwise we retirees can lose track of time and our sense of purpose.”

“Totally understand.” Thomas smoothly steps into Heidi’s home.

The single-story house has a small entryway with a wooden coat stand in the corner. There’s a closed door to the right, probably her bedroom. To the left is a combined living and dining room with a door at the far end that opens into a sea-foam-green-accented kitchen. A glass cabinet just inside the opening to the living room is filled with china, gold-etched floral plates on display.

“Those were my mother’s,” Heidi says when she sees me looking. “My sister wanted them, but Mom knew I was the better cook and love to entertain.”

“They’re beautiful.” I follow her into the living room, where the walls are one shade darker than the beige carpet. A two-foot-high cross with a very real-looking Jesus peers from the wall behind the couch. Bless you for taking little Sylvie Peters into your home. There’s a brightly colored painting of the Last Supper hanging to the right of a highly polished dining set. I believe with your love and GOD’s guiding hand, Sylvie will have a good life. And the side table dividing the living and dining room has two rows of votive candles lined in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Give justice to the weak and the fatherless. This is definitely the Heidi who wrote Mom that letter.