I had just watched what happened to a child whom everyone assumed was fine because she was quiet and her mother seemed capable; I was not going to resent the people whose entire job was to refuse to make that assumption ever again.

They did not know me.

For all they knew, whatever was wrong in this family might be wider than one woman.

So they came to my home, and they looked, and they asked hard questions, and they made sure — really sure, not just paperwork-sure — before they placed a traumatized eight-year-old in my care.

It ached to be vetted while my niece waited in a temporary placement and my heart pulled toward her every hour.

And it was exactly right that they did it.