Wolfie…

Tommy Clarkes life began with a rejection that seemed to come from nowhere. One night his mother, after a long labour that stretched into the early hours, wrapped the newborn in a rag and, without looking to see if he breathed, handed the bundle to her lodger with a curt warning: The trash will be taken in the morning, so hurry before anyone wakes up!

Fortunately the townsfolk rose early, and the lodger, a simple man of limited wit, did not throw the infant into the bin. He left the bundle on the doorstep, covering it with an old overcoat someone had abandoned. Thus the child stayed warm until his neighbour, Aunt Vera, came out to walk her boisterous terrier, Biscuit, who suddenly could no longer hold his bladder. Biscuit barked so loudly that Vera could hardly calm him; she squeezed the dogs wet snout in her fist, hushed him for a moment, and, in a robe and slippers, burst out into the crisp dawn, muttering about her husbands birthday present being far less impressive than this furry disaster she now clutched.

Biscuit, thrilled by his newfound freedom, dashed around the garden, marking his territory with a few massive circles before pausing, whining softly, and trotting toward the rubbish bins, ignoring Veras shouted pleas: Where are you off to, you mad thing? Who are you calling? The dog ignored her, circled the bundle where Tommy lay, and let out a howl that made Vera clutch her heart.

What on earth is that? she cried, pulling the coat back and exposing the ragged bundle. Good people, help! Whats happening here?

Her husband, Uncle Mike, was a deep sleeper. Neither Biscuits bark nor the neighbours weekend drill could rouse him, but the moment he heard his wifes sob, he burst from the bed in brightly patterned boxer shorts, still halfasleep, shouting, Vera, Im coming! He stumbled into the yard, certain only that his wife needed aid.

Seeing the tiny, shivering infant, Mikes concern cut through any lingering plans with his brotherinlaw. He took the child, wrapped him in his wifes warm robe, and, after a quick kiss to Veras cheek, commanded, Calm down, and take off that coat!

Tommy, still unaware of the roles these strangers would play, let out a faint cry. Though it was more whimper than wail, it served as a proper summons. Mike, taking the robe from his wife, wrapped it around the baby and, baffled at his own swiftness, hurried to the front steps, barking at Biscuit, Back inside! The ambulance arrived promptly, and Tommy was taken away.

Aunt Vera wept on her husbands shoulder for a long while before forcing herself to prepare breakfast, feeding Biscuit almost the entire remaining supply of sausage out of sheer pity. Whether she felt more sorry for the dog, the infant shed found that morning, or herself remained a mystery even to her.

One would think that would be the end of Tommys taleafter all, why return to the yard that almost stole his life? Yet fate, whimsical as ever, lingered on his small shoulders. In the whitewashed hospital ward, Tommy stared at the ceiling, quietly building strength, eating heartily, and sleeping soundly, endearing himself to the nurses with his placid demeanor.

The gold, not the child! a matron remarked, marveling at his calm. Other babies wail, but he only cries when truly needed. Who would ever refuse such a gift? Tommy could not answer; he did not yet know of any mother, nor of a father who had scattered his own children across the country and wished no part of them. The state, after much paperwork, christened him Thomas Clarke, a name as common as the other abandoned children they tended.

At the childrens home, the staff adored him, doting on his lack of fuss. Hell be taken quicklyhandsome and healthymaybe his real parents will appear, they whispered.

But destiny had other plans. He was indeed taken, and after six months the woman who had legally adopted him grew weary of raising a child not her own. She returned him to the place she had taken him from, as if he were a shop toy she no longer liked.

His new father, eager to finally have a child of his own after ten barren years, accepted without protest. Doctors, however, warned that nature might not grant him fatherhood. Tommy, still bewildered by the rapid turns of his short, stormy life, only mourned the loss of nightly lullabies and the gentle hands that once cradled him. He soon forgot these sorrows, as people tend to recall the bad more than the good.

He again gazed at the sterile ceiling, ate his porridge dutifully, and smiled when anyone touched him, even if such affection was rarely voiced. You cant have everything, he thought, but you must act, not whine.

When he turned three, a man came to claim him, and Tommy announced, Im Tom! with solemn pride, extending his hand. The man raised an eyebrow, sharing a look with his striking wife, and said, Hes not what we needtoo odd.

Unaware that Tommy merely wanted to share the new things his nurse had taught himhow autumn painted the world with fallen leaveshe was dismissed. The nurse had once placed him on a windowsill, traced the glass and said, See, Tom? Autumn is here, it rains, leaves carpet the ground. Beautiful, isnt it? You were born in September; perhaps fate will bring you good luck and a proper family.

Perhaps moved by her words, fate turned away those who might have taken him. The next day, no one came again. Tommy, oblivious to the identities of those visitors, soon forgot their faces. The nurse, feeling a tug of destiny, brushed her fingers across the same window, deciding it was time to look after her own nephews happiness.

She first revisited the yard where Tommy had been found. There stood Vera, as always early, walking Biscuit, staring at the rubbish bins, sighing deeplyher own life marked by the memory of that morning. In her youth she had been lively, juggling school, work, and dreaming of great love. Her looks were modest, yet she never let that stop her from hoping.

Her mother, ever critical, had once urged her to find a shorter skirt like the girls wore, insisting longer legs, prettier look, but Vera learned to accentuate her strengths: thick hair, bright eyes, light lashes, a slender waist, and to wear clothes that suited her. She discovered that true beauty stemmed from selfrespect, not mere appearance.

With her mothers encouragement, Vera completed college, secured a job, and eventually the family bought her a secondhand cara modest Ford that needed some tender loving care but got them where they needed to go, especially since the village bus ran erratically. Her father, proud of the harvest from his modest garden, would take the car to the countryside each spring.

Vera learned to drive quickly, and, seeking a reliable mechanic, found one named Michael. Their romance was calm: bouquets, chocolates, introductions to parents. When Vera announced her engagement, friends praised, Mike is a good sort, you’re much alikewise and loving.

Years later, doctors told them that children would not come to them. They exchanged a resigned glance, holding each others shoulders in the quiet of their bedroom, whispering, Well manage, love. Youre my child enough.

Time softened the ache. Their parents passed, leaving a gentle sorrow and fond memories. A new dog, Biscuit, entered the home, and life seemed settleduntil that autumn morning when Biscuit barked, recalling the day Tommy had arrived.

Since then Veras nights were haunted by dreams of crisp autumn mornings, damp leaves, and a faint infant cry. She would wander the yard, stare at the dog, and awaken drenched in cold sweat, wondering what she must do. Her husband would ask, Whats wrong, love? A bad dream? I dont know, Mike she would answer, hiding her anxiety.

For the first time, Vera confessed her fear to Mike, clutching a tiny imagined head in her palm, the memory of that brief moment when she held Tommy. Mike, too, kept silent, fearing to stir her distress. Both understood the weight of holding a strangers child, taken without compassion, and the bitterness of being denied the chance to love.

Then one day Biscuit vanished. Vera let the dog out as usual, bent to tidy up, and returned to find the yard empty. She scoured neighbouring gardens, called for him under every bush, and phoned Mike to continue the search together. Yet Biscuit was gone as if swallowed by the earth.

Two days and nights of frantic searching passed, until the third day Biscuit staggered back, muddy and dripping from rain, alive. Biscuit, my joy! Vera exclaimed, scooping him up. Where have you been? The dog licked her nose, wagging his tail, and in that instant Veras mind flashed to the tiny head shed once cradled.

Mike! she gasped, but he was already at her side, ready for whatever she would say.

For the first time that evening Vera poured out everything: her fears, her hope, the boy she could not erase from her thoughts. Do you think theyve taken him into a family? she asked, wiping tears with a kitchen towel that could no longer contain them. Mike shrugged, I dont know. I could ask at the council office; they might have a clue. If hes with a family, thank God. If not He let the sentence hang.

He then wrapped an arm around her, murmuring, Lets get some sleep; the morning brings clearer thoughts.

Six months later, Tommy, now a shy boy of five, would look into the eyes of the woman who barely remembered him and extend his hand to a tall, sturdy man. Im Tom, he said. Michael, now older, shook the offered hand gently and turned to his wife, saying, Enough of the tears, love. Its time to go home.