My ‘little treasure’ was shaken to death by Ofsted-registered childminder – she said he choked, the lies never stopped

AS I rang the doorbell, I heard the familiar sound of my baby son crying inside, and my heart lurched.

“Is Harlow OK?” I asked anxiously, as his childminder, Karen Foster, answered the door. “I heard him crying.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” she replied breezily. “Stop worrying. It will take him three months to settle in here.”

But scooping Harlow into my arms, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. I couldn’t work out whether I was over-protective, or I was right to be concerned. But I really didn’t like leaving him with the childminder.

Harlow was my third child, but my first with my partner, Allen Frangleton, now 40. When we’d got together, in 2020, I had two teenage daughters and Allen had three sons and a daughter.

We weren’t planning a baby, so when I fell pregnant in the autumn of 2020, it was a surprise. But we soon got excited. I couldn’t wait to be a mum again.

The pregnancy went well, and Harlow was born in May 2021, healthy.  He was completely perfect. His big sisters and brothers all spoiled him. Everyone adored him.

He was such a good baby too; slotting straight into our family routine. He ate and slept well and was so smiley.

As he got bigger, he learned to clap with his feet, which always made us laugh. He loved Peter Rabbit and pink wafer biscuits.

I treasured every moment of being his mum, but, towards the end of 2021, my maternity leave was running out. Reluctantly, I had to start planning childcare.

My hours as a business coordinator were 11.30pm – 4.30am and so nursery wasn’t suitable. My colleague recommended Karen Foster, a local childminder in Burnley, Lancashire.

I made an appointment to see her, and she was very welcoming. She seemed experienced, she said she’d been a nurse and a foster carer. I was filled with reassurance.

And though, at 60, she was older, she was apparently an open-water swimmer, and was very fit and healthy.

We arranged a few settling-in sessions, for January 2022, and the first two visits went well. But at the end of the third session, I started to worry about the number of children Karen was looking after.

She did school wraparound care and sometimes she’d have eight or nine kids and a baby there, as well as Harlow. I decided to challenge her.

“Oh, it’s fine, my husband is a registered childminder and the rules are different for siblings. I’m well within the regulations, don’t worry.”

I checked online and she was registered with Ofsted. I couldn’t find anything negative about Karen at all.

“I just don’t feel happy leaving Harlow,” I told Allen.

But I accepted maybe I was just over-anxious, returning to work. In February, Karen began caring for Harlow officially.

To my alarm, he cried every time I dropped him off, and he was usually crying when I collected him too.

“He’s fine,” Karen told me. “He’s just a tough nut to crack.”

But it was upsetting, thinking he was unhappy. One day, I collected Harlow and his bottle was still in his bag. She had forgotten to feed him. When I mentioned it, she said he was ‘lazy’ and ought to be giving himself his bottle.

I checked online and she was registered with Ofsted. I couldn’t find anything negative about Karen at all.

Gemma Collinge

Karen was regimented in the way she looked after the children. I got the sense they were wary of her, frightened even. If she shouted, they jumped to attention. But then, I conceded, she needed rules to keep them all safe. Especially with so many children to care for.

I asked my mum, Viv, and Allen to meet her.

“She seems OK,” they said.

I thought maybe it was just me. But one day, I arrived at Karen’s and it was chaos. There were lots of children, some crying. I found Harlow in his pram, covered in his own vomit and with a wet nappy. He was sobbing. I was so upset.

“Enough is enough,” I said firmly.

I found a new childminder, who could take Harlow after he turned one, in May, two months away.  In the meantime, I swapped my shifts so I could take Harlow to work with me.  Allen took time off work, and Mum looked after him one day a week too.

I got the sense [the children in her care] were wary of her, frightened even. If she shouted, they jumped to attention.

Gemma Collinge

He was now only with Karen on Monday and Tuesday, and they were her quieter days. I booked two weeks off in March as well, so I could look after him full-time.

It was a relief to know Karen wouldn’t be looking after him for much longer. I didn’t for a moment think she would harm him in any way; I was just worried she had too many children.

On March 1, I dropped Harlow off with Karen as usual.

He had a rash around his mouth but was absolutely full of beans. I took a photo of him and he was so smiley.  I kissed him goodbye and went off to work.

Two and a half hours later, I got a call from Karen.

“Harlow choked on pasta, he stopped breathing,” she told me.

I was in such a panic, I couldn’t take it in. My boss drove me to Royal Blackburn Hospital where Karen was already waiting.

She put her arms around me and told me she’d tried to save him.

“I did CPR,” she said. “I did my best.”

Shell-shocked, I was on my hands and knees praying, begging for my baby to be OK. Allen and Mum arrived.

“How has he choked on pasta?” Mum asked Karen. “Harlow doesn’t even like pasta.”

Then the police came and said there was no sign of Harlow choking.

“He had a new cream for his rash,” I remembered. “Perhaps he’s had a bad reaction?”

Mum dashed to Karen’s to pick up the cream, so doctors could check. But then a scan showed Harlow had a brain injury.

“How?” I asked, bewildered.

Karen was taken to a different room and I was allowed to see my baby, just for a moment.

He was on a ventilator, surrounded by wires. It was like a nightmare. I couldn’t take it in. Harlow was transferred to Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital. Allen and I kept a vigil by his bedside. But four days on, his doctors said there was no hope.

She put her arms around me and told me she’d tried to save him.

Gemma Collinge

He was just ten months old. I felt as though my whole world was being smashed into little pieces. How could this happen?

Harlow’s life-support was withdrawn, and we were told he would slip away quite quickly. Instead, he continued to breathe, in my arms, for 12 hours. It was agony, knowing each breath might be his last.

Coming home from the hospital without our little boy was unbearably sad.

We still had no idea how he’d died. Karen was refusing to tell the truth. She tried saying he had a genetic fault, and so our family had to undergo genetic testing.  She insisted on a second post-mortem. She even tried blaming me.

She told so many lies, just adding to our pain.

The police told us not to tell anyone that Karen had been arrested. On social media, people speculated that perhaps a family member was responsible for Harlow’s death. It was hard, not being able to share the facts.

One day, my phone rang, and a lady introduced herself from Ofsted.

“I’m letting you know Karen Foster has been suspended, so you would need to find alternative childcare,” she said.

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe they could be so insensitive.

“My son is the child who died,” I replied.

But there was worse to come. Other parents contacted me, saying there had been previous complaints about Foster.

The police also confirmed she had been in breach of Ofsted rules regarding the number of children she was allowed to care for. Her husband wasn’t registered with Ofsted at all. It was all lies.

But our whole family was destroyed. My daughters had to come out of school, I couldn’t work. I couldn’t even leave the house. I left everything as it was; Harlow’s cot, his toys his clothes. I couldn’t bear to a thing.

We held a Peter Rabbit funeral for him, a tiny little blue coffin with a fluffy rabbit on top.

Alongside my grief I felt so guilty for trusting Foster. I wished, more than anything, I could have listened to my instincts. I tortured myself. Yet I knew she was the only one to blame. She was charged with murdering our son.

For two years, I put my faith in the justice system completely. I kept quiet, just as the police had said. I pinned all my hopes on the trial.

Foster appeared before Preston Crown Court in June 2024 and pleaded guilty to a lesser charge of manslaughter.

The court heard she had violently shaken baby Harlow, causing catastrophic brain injuries. In court, she claimed Harlow had fallen out of his highchair. It was more lies.

She was jailed for 12 years and seven months.

Foster had also been charged with assaulting a two-year-old girl in her care in 2019, which she denied. That count was ordered to lie on the file.

Karen Foster is a monster and I hope she rots in jail. But there are many other failings and these need to be addressed so this does not happen to another family.

We miss Harlow every moment of every day. In his name, I want to campaign for Harlow’s Law, meaning stricter regulation of childminders and nurseries. Nothing will bring my boy back, but I hope another life can be saved in his memory.

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