An upright piano stands tight against the right-hand wall. I stop to admire the photos lined along the top. Max was right. Heidi was a beauty. In one picture she’s in her twenties, wavy red hair halfway down her back, high cheekbones, deep-blue eyes. She wears a white halter and a purple hippy-style skirt slung low on rounded hips. Beside her is a woman who must be her sister, eyes the same color but set deep in a square face capped with spiky red hair. The sister sports a white collared shirt and plaid shorts.

The rest of the photos show the two girls at the beach, on a sailboat, hiking in the woods; they range from childhood to the present. They’ve been best friends their whole lives. A pang of jealousy strikes and the vibrations ripple through me. What would it have been like to have a sister? Only one photograph has a man in it—he’s turned sideways, broad shoulders, jet-black hair, arms casually wrapped around Heidi’s waist, hands on her bare belly. She might not have married, but she definitely slept with that guy.

Heidi lifts a frame—two barefoot little girls on a dock. “My sister, Briella,” she says.

“You look close,” Thomas notes.

“We are . . . when she’s capable.” Heidi’s eyes fill. “Briella has Alzheimer’s. On good days she remembers me. Not so often now. Her husband died a few years ago. I’m thankful I can be here for her. ‘It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.’ Deuteronomy 31:8.”

Once Thomas and I are settled on an overstuffed floral couch with cups of tea on cork coasters and a plate of Pepperidge Farm Milano Mint cookies, Thomas pulls out his notebook. “Why don’t we start with your decision to become a foster care caseworker?”

Heidi slides to the edge of her chair and takes a nibble of cookie then a sip of tea before placing them carefully on their respective plates. She blots thin lips with a paper napkin. “Both Briella and I were so very lucky. We were called to our respective careers. Honest-to-goodness. Probably on account of beautiful childhoods—mother and father were strict but kind and instilled a deep love of God and the importance of giving back to our community. After graduating with a degree in social work, I was an administrative assistant for the Department of Human Services. I saw, firsthand, all the important work done by DHS and the special role of foster caseworkers.”

“What was it, specifically, about foster care that called to you?” Thomas presses.

Heidi’s cheeks flush. He’s good at playing into her emotional needs.

“Children. They’re my life’s work, God’s work, truly, and it was always my heart’s desire to see every child loved and happy. My family wanted me married with offspring of my own. Those were the times when a woman’s place was definitely in the home, barefoot and pregnant, ha-ha. They didn’t understand that each child I helped was one of my own. That it took every free moment and iron-willed resolve, no time for marriage, honest-to-goodness, to make sure my kids weren’t let down by the system, that they were shepherded to a good life.”