When Holly reported a bruise on her baby’s arm to the midwife, it was the beginning of her nightmare…
Staring down at the gurgling bundle of joy in my arms, I couldn’t have been happier.
‘You’re my little miracle,’ I cooed to my newborn baby, named Adventure.
Sadly I’d split from his father before the birth, but being a single mum didn’t faze me. I had a great deal of support from friends and family.
I’d been in hospital recovering for two days.
‘You can take your baby home now,’ the midwife smiled.
Back home, Adventure and I settled into our new life. Each day a different midwife would come to check how we were.
One night, I was in the middle of breastfeeding Adventure before bed, when I noticed something odd on his arm.
Looking closer, I could see he had a small bruise, roughly the size of a five-pence coin.
I’ll tell the midwife about that tomorrow, I thought, convinced she’d tell me it was nothing to worry about.
‘Let me have a look,’ the midwife said the next day, her voice full of concern.
After inspecting the bruise, she started undressing him.
Why is she checking the rest of his body? I wondered.
‘I need to make some calls,’ she continued.
I felt uneasy.
Was there something wrong with Adventure?
A few hours later, two social workers turned up at my door.
‘You need to take your baby to hospital right away,’ one of them announced.
‘Oh, OK,’ I stuttered, grabbing my keys.
‘No, you need to come in our car,’ the other midwife said.
I thought it was strange, but assumed it was just part of the procedure.
I buckled Adventure into his baby carrier, and 20 minutes later we arrived at the hospital.
After he was examined by a paediatrician, I cuddled him close to me, anxiously waiting for answers.
The social workers didn’t move from my side the whole time.
A few hours later, one of them finally explained what was going on.
As she spoke, only two words stuck with me.
Child protection.
Suddenly I felt like I was in a daze, struggling to take it all in.
‘He needs to go into foster care,’ one said.
‘But he needs his breast milk,’ I said, baffled by what I was hearing.
According to social services, because the bruise on Adventure’s arm was classed as unexplained, they had to investigate it further.
‘We have to rule out abuse,’ the social worker explained.
They told me that I could call the police if I wanted to, so I did.
But when they arrived, there was nothing they could do.
'We have to rule out abuse'
‘I’m sorry, but if you don’t leave voluntarily, we’ll have to arrest you,’ the officer warned.
My legs felt like lead as I tried to take one step, then another.
As I took one last glance at my eight-day-old baby asleep in his cot, I burst into tears.
That night, I barely slept a wink, tossing and turning.
My mind raced.
Was he OK? Who was feeding him? When would I see him again?
The next morning, I had to go to the police station to be interviewed.
‘It’s not down to us, it’s down to social services,’ they told me apologetically.
I assumed that I’d get my baby back within days, but it was quite the opposite.
‘The whole process could take up to six months,’ the social worker explained.
‘Six months?’ I croaked. ‘But my baby is my world.’
Even though there was no evidence I’d done anything wrong, it turned out that social services were well within their rights to keep me from seeing my baby.
It was all part of the procedure, they said, but it seemed cruel beyond belief.
Thankfully, social workers agreed to leave Adventure with my brother Graham.
He had offered to take him on, to save his nephew from being fostered by a stranger.
Graham was living on his own with the means to look after him. He even gave up his role as a company director to care for Adventure.
‘It means the world to me,’
I sobbed.
‘He’s my flesh and blood,’ Graham replied. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
I was still holding on to the hope that within a few weeks it would all be over.
Surely it wouldn’t take them long to realise I’d never laid a finger on my baby?
‘You can see Adventure four days a week, for a couple of hours each time,’ the social worker advised. ‘But the visits must be supervised.’
She then explained Adventure had undergone an X-ray to see if he had any injuries, which had come back clear.
‘We have to wait for a second doctor to sign off the decision before we can release him,’ the social worker continued.
‘But if a doctor said he’s OK, why do you need a second opinion?’ I asked.
‘It’s just procedure,’ she replied.
There was that word again, ‘procedure’.
‘How can it be procedure to keep a perfectly healthy newborn away from his mother?’ I fumed.
But it was no use, all I could do was follow orders.
Four times a week, I had to drive an hour each way to Graham’s, to see my own baby.
Each time, I’d hold my son to my bare chest for skin-to-skin contact.
I was desperate to make sure we developed a bond. That was something I wouldn’t let social services take away from me.
But as I spent the little quality time I had with my boy, I could feel the eyes of the social worker on me constantly.
It made me feel like a caged animal.
‘You’re such a good mum,’ the observer commented.
I think she was trying
to reassure me. But if anything, it only made me more angry.
If you know I’m a good mum, why can’t I have my son back? I wondered in frustration.
As the weeks turned to months, I tried my best to distract myself.
I was still on maternity leave from my job as a therapist.
When I wasn’t crying in bed, I spent hours redecorating the whole house, including the nursery.
‘It’s ready for when you come home, baby,’ I whispered.
Each time I left Graham’s house without Adventure, it felt like that first day we were separated all over again.
After four long months, I got a call from my social worker.
‘The second doctor has given the OK,’ she told me down the phone. ‘You can get Adventure back.’
I burst into tears.
Finally, my nightmare was coming to an end.
Two days later, I attended a meeting where it was confirmed that I wasn’t a danger to my son.
Then, Graham handed Adventure back to me.
‘I love you,’ I whispered to my baby boy.
He’d grown up so much, and I’d missed out on it all.
I’d never get that precious time back.
At home, I relished all my extra time with him.
But I suffered frightening flashbacks every night.
In time, I was diagnosed with PTSD, and started going to therapy.
I’ve since had many women contact me over social media, saying they’ve been through the same thing.
North Tyneside were the local authority who put me through the ordeal.
They are one of eight councils in England that still operate the so-called ‘bruising’ policy.
But I was one of the fortunate ones. If it wasn’t for Graham stepping up, my baby would’ve gone to live with
a stranger.
Now, I’m raising awareness of my story, because I want the cruel policy to be changed.
I’ve moved out of the area, and still suffer with anxiety from the emotional trauma.
Thankfully, it hasn’t had the same impact on Adventure.
Now three years old, he’s an energetic boy who’s so curious about the world around him.
I’m grateful every day that he doesn’t remember the time we had to spend apart.
If only I could say the same.
Holly Kobayashi, 40, Stroud, Gloucestershire
North Tyneside Children's and Adults' Services said: 'North Tyneside Council has a strong multi-agency partnership and we have robust measures in place to make sure that children and young people are at the centre of our work and that we are proportionate in our response. Whilst we can't comment on individual cases, we would like to offer reassurance that number of factors are taken into account when determining a course of action, and we always follow an agreed multi-agency approach when there is a suspected injury to a non-mobile child. Social care can be complex and difficult work, but the council is absolutely committed to safeguard gin and protecting children. Along with our partners, we regularly review our practises and policies to ensure they're fit for purpose.'