I was 10 years old the first time my parents fostered a child.

I was 26, married and the mother of a 2-year-old when they fostered their last.

But before they renewed their foster license, they asked me if I would be OK with another sibling who was younger than my son.

I’ll never forget that conversation. I sat in a parking lot picking at a loose thread on my sleeve with my toddler napping in the backseat. My mother spoke through her crackly speakerphone, and I could hear the longing in her voice.

“Dad and I would love a little girl after all these boys.”