Michelle: Mark, give me your five-word review of Claire Keegan's Foster. Mark: A quiet summer saves a life. Michelle: Ooh, that's good. Mine is: Kindness is a learned language. Mark: A learned language... I like that. It’s not just a feeling you have, it's a skill you practice. Michelle: Exactly. And that's the genius of Foster by Claire Keegan. It's this tiny novella, you can read it in an hour, but it was named one of The Times' Top 50 Novels of the 21st Century. It’s a literary heavyweight in a featherlight package. Mark: Wow. That’s some serious praise for such a short book. Michelle: It is, and it’s deserved. Keegan herself grew up on a farm in rural Ireland in the 1980s, the very setting of this story, and you feel that authenticity on every single page. The air, the land, the unspoken rules of the community—it’s all there. Mark: So she’s writing what she knows. That explains the power. And your idea of kindness as a learned language feels like the perfect entry point. It implies our main character doesn't speak it yet. Michelle: She doesn't. She’s a complete beginner. The story opens with her, an unnamed young girl from a large, impoverished family, being driven by her father to be dropped off with relatives for the summer. Her mother is about to have yet another baby, and she is, for all intents and purposes, one mouth too many to feed. Mark: That’s a brutal way to start a summer vacation. It sounds less like a trip and more like a piece of luggage being delivered. Michelle: That’s exactly the feeling. Her father is in a hurry to get away, he doesn't even come in for a cup of tea. He leaves her suitcase on the ground, and inside, there's nothing but the clothes she’s wearing. He drives off, and the girl is just left there, standing in the driveway with these near-strangers, the Kinsellas. Mark: Oh, man. The sense of abandonment must be overwhelming. She’s been handed off. Michelle: Utterly. And this is where she begins her lessons in this new language.

Michelle: Her first lesson comes from Mrs. Kinsella. She sees the state the girl is in—thin, quiet, neglected—and the first thing she does is draw her a hot bath. Keegan’s writing here is just exquisite. She describes the water, the steam, the simple, clean feeling that the girl has likely never experienced. Mark: I can almost feel that. For a child who has nothing, a warm bath isn't just about getting clean. It's about being cared for. It’s a physical manifestation of attention. Michelle: It is. And after the bath, Mrs. Kinsella gives her some clothes to wear. The girl is just swimming in them, they're far too big, but they're clean. And this is the first brick in what I’d call the ‘architecture of kindness’ that the Kinsellas build around her. Mark: The architecture of kindness. I love that framing. It’s not a random act. It’s a structure. It’s intentional. What’s the next brick? Michelle: The next brick is water. The next day, Mrs. Kinsella takes her to the well. She tells the girl that their water is the best in the area, and she has her drink a glass straight from the bucket. The girl is stunned by how clean and cold it is. At her own home, the water was often brown and had to be boiled. Mark: Whoa. So even something as fundamental as water is a luxury to her. It’s like she’s being introduced to the basic elements of a safe world for the first time. Michelle: Exactly. And during this moment at the well, Mrs. Kinsella tells her something that becomes a central rule of the house. She says, "There are no secrets in this house." She says if you have to hide something, it’s a sign of shame. Mark: Okay, but that feels a little ominous, doesn't it? Like a rule that’s destined to be broken. It’s setting up a standard that feels almost impossible to maintain. Michelle: It is. It’s a beautiful ideal, but it hangs in the air with a certain weight. For now, though, it’s part of the structure of safety. This is a place of openness, of clarity, just like the water from the well. The girl starts to thrive in this environment. She helps with chores, she eats three meals a day, she even starts running around the farm with Mr. Kinsella, who is a quiet, gentle man. Mark: So she’s not just being sheltered; she’s being integrated. She’s becoming part of the rhythm of their lives. Michelle: She is. There's a beautiful moment where Mr. Kinsella tells her that she could have been a girl of their own. And you feel her just blossom under this attention. For the first time, she’s not an inconvenience or a burden. She’s a presence. She matters. Mark: It’s incredible how these small, tangible things—a bath, a glass of water, a kind word—can completely rebuild a child’s sense of self. Her old life was about lack, and this new life is about presence. Someone is finally present for her. Michelle: That’s the perfect word for it. The Kinsellas are fully present. They see her. And in being seen, she starts to see herself differently. But you were right to feel that sense of foreboding. Mark: I knew it. It all sounds so idyllic, almost like a fairy tale. I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. A house with "no secrets" is usually the one with the biggest one of all.

Michelle: And the shoe drops hard. After she's been there for a while, the Kinsellas decide she needs proper clothes that fit. They take her into the town of Gorey for a shopping trip. This is a monumental event for her. Buying new things, just for her, is an act of love she can’t even comprehend. Mark: That’s a huge step. They’re not just borrowing her for the summer; they’re investing in her. They’re claiming her in a way. Michelle: They are. But while they’re in town, they run into a neighbor, a woman named Mildred. And Mildred is a gossip. Later, when the girl is alone with her for a moment, Mildred says something that shatters this perfect summer. Mark: Oh no. Here it comes. Michelle: Mildred asks the girl if she knows why the Kinsellas are so good to her. And then she reveals it. The Kinsellas had a son. A little boy. And a few years ago, he fell into a slurry tank on the farm and drowned. Mark: Oh, my god. That’s… devastating. Michelle: It gets worse. Mildred then points to the clothes the girl was given when she first arrived—the ones that were too big for her. She says, "Those were his." Mark: Whoa. Hold on. So all this time… she’s been wearing the clothes of their dead son? That changes everything. Michelle: Everything. Suddenly, the kindness isn't simple anymore. The empty space in their house, the quiet sorrow you can sometimes feel beneath the surface, the way they look at her… it all clicks into place. Their generosity is rooted in the deepest imaginable grief. Mark: That’s an almost unbearable weight for a child to carry. So their kindness isn't just kindness. It’s a transference of love. It’s an attempt to fill an impossible void. Does this crush her? Michelle: It does, initially. She’s horrified. She feels like an imposter. That night, she can't sleep, and Mr. Kinsella finds her wandering outside. He doesn't ask what’s wrong. He just says, "Let’s go for a walk." And he walks her all the way to the sea. Mark: He doesn't try to explain? Michelle: No. He just shares the silence with her. He tells her a story about the stars and the tide. He says, "You can fall into the sea and still be alive." He’s not talking about the sea. He’s talking about grief. He’s telling her that you can fall into an ocean of sorrow and still survive. He’s giving her permission to know the secret without having to speak it. Mark: That is such a profound act of love. He’s teaching her another part of the language—the language of shared, unspoken pain. Michelle: Exactly. And this becomes the defining moment of her relationship with them. The story moves towards its inevitable end when a letter arrives from her mother. The new baby is born, and she’s being called home for school. Mark: The fairy tale is over. Michelle: It is. The return to her own home is stark. It’s loud, chaotic, and she’s immediately invisible again. Her mother barely looks at her. But as the Kinsellas are about to drive away, the girl does something incredible. She runs. She runs past her own mother, past her own father, and throws her arms around Mr. Kinsella. Mark: She chooses them. Michelle: She chooses them. And as she’s holding onto him, she whispers, "Daddy." And then she thinks to herself that she will never, ever tell. She will never tell anyone their secret. Mark: Wow. So the rule of "no secrets in this house" gets its final, heartbreaking twist. She joins their family not by being told everything, but by choosing to keep the one secret that matters most. Michelle: Her final exam in the language of kindness is learning the art of silence. She becomes the fosterer of their secret.

Mark: That’s an incredible arc. The story starts with her being an object, something to be dropped off and dealt with. But by the end, she has agency. She makes a choice. She becomes a guardian. Michelle: That’s the core of it. The Kinsellas build this beautiful, fragile "architecture of kindness" for her, piece by piece. And in return, she solidifies its foundation by becoming the keeper of their sorrow. It’s a reciprocal act of fostering. She gives them a place to put their love, and they give her a love worth protecting. Mark: It completely redefines what family means. It has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with who shows up. Who builds that structure for you, and whose secrets you are willing to carry. Michelle: It’s a powerful and deeply moving idea. The book is a testament to the fact that the most profound transformations often happen in the quietest of places, through the smallest of actions. It’s a reminder that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity. Mark: It really makes you think. It makes you wonder, what small acts of 'fostering' are we doing, or not doing, in our own lives? Who are we building that architecture of kindness for? Michelle: That’s a question that will stay with me for a long time. It’s a powerful story, and we’d love to hear what it brings up for you. You can find us on our social channels and share your thoughts. We always love continuing the conversation. Mark: Absolutely. A small book with a huge heart. Michelle: This is Aibrary, signing off.