The remarkable story of a couple who risked everything to open their home--and their hearts--to answer an abandoned child's wish.
It was a small note buried in the file of a deeply troubled eleven-year-old boy--a plea for a normal life Rich and Sue Miniter couldn't ignore:
The Things I Want MOST:
A family
A fishing pole
A familyThe Miniters heard in that simple note the voice of a frightened child who wanted what all children want and need: someone to love who would love them in return.
So they brought Mike home to the cozy country inn they'd restored and managed in rural upstate New York. There, over the next year, they would try to make Mike's dream come true. But first they would have to work through the fear, anger, and distrust that accompanied this boy who had lived his whole life with the label "severely emotionally disturbed." For the biggest obstacle to Mike's happiness was Mike himself, who gave the Miniters every reason to give up but one--the power of love.

When Richard and Sue Miniter decided to open their home--and their hearts--to a foster child, they couldn't imagine the frustrations and joys, the breakthroughs and setbacks, not to mention the emotional toll, that awaited them. Here is the remarkable true story of how their lives changed forever with their decision to answer an abandoned child's wish for THE THINGS I WANT MOST. -->

THE REMARKABLE STORY OF A COUPLE WHO RISKED EVERYTHING TO OPEN THEIR HOME -- AND THEIR HEARTS -- TO ANSWER AN ABANDONED CHILD'S WISH

The Things I Want Most

It was a small note buried in the file of a deeply troubled eleven-year-old boy -- a plea for a normal life Rich and Sue Miniter couldn't ignore:

The Miniters heard in that simple note the voice of a frightened child who wanted what all children want and need: someone to love who would love them in return. So they brought Mike home to the cozy country inn they'd restored and managed in rural upstate New York. There, over the next year, they would try to make Mike's dream come true. But first they would have to work through the fear, anger, and distrust that accompanied this boy who had lived his whole life with the label "severely emotionally disturbed". For the biggest obstacle to Mike's happiness was Mike himself, who gave the Miniters every reason to give up but one -- the power of love.

Richard Miniter lives and works with his wife, Susan, a financial planner, in a country inn they are restoring in upstate New York.

Chapter One: A Family, a Fishing Pole, a Family

"Why would they even show us something like this?"

It was the spring of 1993, and I was asking the question of my wife, Susan. We were alone in an office on the top floor of a house the Mental Health Association had converted to its headquarters. There, for the better part of the morning, we had been examining a file. And if the file was only half accurate, the child described in it was a monster. In fact, as I read on, one word kept tramping back and forth in my thoughts with heavy boots--sociopath, sociopath, sociopath. The person--the child--I was reading about was a sociopath.

At this time in my life I hadn't had any thought at all of helping anyone else, much less someone who needed this much effort. But we had been working up to this point ever since Sue had erupted with a sudden, bizarre interest in foster children a few months ago. It wasn't the first occasion in our married life when she had roared off after something. In fact, I often thought of her as a tiny door that opened on an immense furnace. But that extravagant force had usually been directed at some issue in the lives of our own five sons and one daughter or, as they grew, at the building of SCM Tax Prep, her tax preparation and financial planning business.

This, I had thought to myself many times at the start of those months, wasn't her. And it wasn't me, either. I had spent twenty-five years in manufacturing, beginning fresh from four and a half years in the Marine Corps as an expediter for a division of North American Phillips before winding up as a director of manufacturing for a medium-sized corporation in New Jersey. Then, determined to finish a novel I had begun while on a job in South Africa years before, I refused a reassignment, pocketed a check, and decided to see if I could make some sort of a living out of the abandoned and haunted old pile of a country inn in New York's mid-Hudson Valley that we were now calling home. And it all had just started coming together.

It wasn't as simple as I had first thought. But the place was getting finished on the inside, at least; we were renting bed-and-breakfast rooms on a long-term basis to some very quiet guests; I was working temporarily for a tiny, cobbled-together local manufacturer; and the book was finished. Meanwhile, I wasn't wearing a suit, I hadn't been on an airplane for business in a couple of years, and even though I had gained about twenty pounds, my blood pressure was down thirty points. I felt healthy, I still had all of my red hair--it was graying a bit in my mustache and on my temples, but it was still there--and every morning I'd get up with the dogs and climb the beautiful mountain we lived on. In milky, rainy dawns and violet sunrises I hiked every day for an hour through our overgrown hay meadow, past the beaver pond, up into the neighbor's manicured orchard blocks, then by the lakes and far up to where I could grin at the distant silvery stream of cars commuting south on the crowded New York State Thruway.

I had just finished helping myself, and life was good.

Our boys--even though they were large enough now that whenever they were home together, they reminded me of five young stallions, restless and cramped in a wee paddock--still required a lot of our time and energy. Our eldest son, Richard, was off and gone on a mad career as a writer and film producer, but others of them hadn't finished college. Henry was a senior and Frank a second-year man at Norwich, the Military College of Vermont, Brendan was just starting George Mason University in Virginia, and Liam was charting new boundaries in the typical male Miniter indifference toward high school. Our second child and only daughter, Susanne, had graduated from the State University of New York at Albany and was working, but this summer she was getting married and we were holding the reception at the house. It wasn't as if we didn't have things to do.

Yet whenever I raised any of these issues, Sue just paved over my objections with, "Rich, we're just looking into it and we're not making any decisions yet. I just want you to go along for a while. You can always say no later on."

"It's the empty-nest syndrome, isn't it, Sue? All the babies have grown and you miss them."

"No, I just have to take a look at this thing."

And so, confused and doubtful, not quite understanding what was driving her, I followed along.

What Sue hadn't told me--wouldn't tell me until long after our orderly, smug little life had been turned on its head--was that she had been struck much as Paul was smitten on the road to Damascus. She hadn't heard a voice or been knocked off a horse, but she had seen a picture--many pictures--and then been challenged in an extremely personal way.

During tax season Sue typically takes a short break around six or six-thirty in the evening in our inn's old barroom, where she perches on a stool, flicks on the news, and then eats a quick dinner, which I've laid out for her. It is a quiet, private time for her--twenty minutes or a half hour when she can be all by herself, get some nourishment, and recharge her batteries before going at it again for the next four or five hours.

It was in her second-story office that Sue made the leap from a job she commuted to in Manhattan and a part-time business into a flourishing full-time practice, and much as I do now, she revels in the thirty-second commute from our apartment with a second cup of coffee in her hand to the remodeled room where she toils happily with her cat dozing on the copy machine behind her. But the hours have stayed brutal--often eighteen hours a day during the months of January through April, as client after client comes calling.

I'm usually extremely careful to leave her entirely alone during her sole break of the day, but what I didn't understand this year was that other, darker presences were intruding.

Night after night in that early spring, the evening network news was full of pictures of starving children in Africa. Children dying in their mothers' arms, children being buried in shallow graves, children helplessly begging for something--anything--to eat. And meanwhile, there would be Sue, sitting all alone in the dim light, night after night, slicing into her juicy lamb chop and swallowing asparagus and mashed potatoes. Finally, one evening, utterly helpless and angry, she slammed down her knife and fork and jerked the TV directory over to her to find something other than news to watch. But when she riffled through the little booklet it fell open to an advertisement--a plea from an organization called The Harbour Program for experienced parents to provide a structured, nurturing home for abused and neglected children.

Sue had sat there stunned for a long moment, read and reread the advertisement, and then finally folded the page over and tore it out.

Yet later, at bedtime, she didn't explain any of this. All she did say was, "I saw an advertisement in the paper I want us to answer."

"What kind of advertisement?"

"There's a special kind of foster-care program that needs help. It's called Harbour."

"What? Why?"

Harbour is a small, new division of the Mental Health Association in Ulster County, which places difficult-to-manage, often emotionally disturbed children into local families which could, with an intensive system of training and support, provide a therapeutic setting for them. The idea is to introduce these children to a normal family routine and then, working with the biological parents, perhaps safely reunite them with their own families. When Sue called the phone number in the advertisement, the social worker who answered listened to a synopsis of our background and invited us up for a chat.

"No."

"Rich," Sue said, tapping her foot, "an hour of your time."

"No."

"Rich, I'm not going to come back here and try to repeat everything I've heard. I want your reading on this, too."

"No."

Sue gritted her teeth; the word she was trying to get out never came that easily for her. "Please."

"Rats."

The next day we went up to Kingston, had coffee with a nice lady named Debi, and were introduced around. Despite misgivings, I found I liked most of the people we met. I appreciate people with a clear vision or mission, and these people seemed to have one. And it wasn't sewn together out of odd parts, either. What was conveyed to us that day was lucid, simple, and understandable: they wanted to break the dreary loop of abuse, removal, return, and then more abuse, followed by more removals, that all too often seemed to prevail in the current child-care system. They would recruit experienced parents, place a single child with them long-term, and then follow up with a comprehensive system of support.

So, modeling itself on other "therapeutic foster care" programs elsewhere, Harbour was sorting out those children and families in the mid-Hudson region who would benefit most from an intensive system of support from seven-day-a-week, twenty-four-hour-a-day availability of staff, from family specialists with very small caseloads, weekly and intensive visits, a comprehensive system of reporting, a strong and daily emphasis on the positive reinforcement of both parents and children, and perhaps most of all, the example furnished to both parents and children by the long-term placement of the children with stable families. The example of, as The Harbour Program termed them, "professional parents."

Us.