A GIFT FROM ASHLEY

April 12th a night I shall not soon forget.

My dog, Molly, was wailing all through the darkness, refusing me any rest. When I finally dared to glance into her little doghouse at dawn, my heart leapt into my throat.

The night had been a ferocious tempest, as if Mother Nature herself had poured every ounce of her fury onto the countryside. Rain hammered the earth, trying to wash away the grime, the injustice, the forgetfulness of the world. Lightning tore through the black sky, flashing like a thousand fireworks, while thunder roared so loudly I could feel the ground shudder with each crack.

The hedgerows bent as if they were alive, branches thrashed against the fence, and water flooded the lane, turning it into a shallow lake. It seemed the whole world had been thrown into chaos, and I feared what the morning might bring.

When the first golden rays slipped through the curtains, the fury was gone. No sign of the storm lingered, no hint of the nights rage. The sky was a clear, crisp blue, as if freshwashed, and the air smelled of damp earth and newly sprouted grass. I stretched, pulled myself out of a restless sleep, and stepped onto the back porch, breathing in the cool, reviving morning air. It felt as though nature had been reborn, breathing new life into everything around us.

Then a memory surfacedduring the height of the thunder, my faithful companion Bella began to howl mournfully. Not a bark, not a growl, but a plaintive howl, as if she sensed some unseen danger. At the time I brushed it off; perhaps the thunder had frightened her, or she had heard something that I could not. Now, looking over the garden, a knot of worry tightened in my chest.

Bella always greeted me at the porch, tail wagging, springing up for a lick. Tonight she lay in the centre of her doghouse, refusing to move. My heart sank. What if shes been hurt by the storm? I thought. A lightning strike that strong could have injured her. I drew nearer and called softly, Bella, love, are you all right?

From the dark slit of the doghouse a weary head emerged, eyes wide and vigilant. She did not leap out as she normally would. She lay there, ears pressed back, watching me with a strange sorrow, as if guarding something precious.

Whats wrong, my dear? I whispered, a shiver running down my spine.

I went inside, fetched a knife, and sliced off a few juicy slices of sausageBellas favourite treat. Perhaps youre hungry? I mused. Yet even the scent of meat failed to rouse her. She stayed motionless, as if her strength had drained, or perhaps an ancient, maternal instinct had rooted her to the spot.

A sour feeling settled over me. Bella had never behaved like this. Even amid the fiercest thunderstorm she would always run to my side for comfort. Now she was the one pulling back, protecting her own little space. My mind raced: Is she sick? Bitten by a snake? Some hidden illness?

I wasted no time dialing the local vet, Dr. Leonard Harris, a longtime acquaintance who had always treated my pets with a gentle, almost intuitive touch. He promised to be there as soon as possible.

Within twenty minutes a modest, wellkept car turned into the drive. A tall, silverhaired man in spectacles stepped out, holding a battered leather case. Dr. Harris was more than a veterinarian; he seemed a healer who could hear the silent cries of animals.

What have we here? he asked, looking around.

I gave him a brief account of Bellas odd behaviour. He approached the doghouse, crouched, and called in a soft, coaxing tone, Bella, dear, come out. Let Uncle Leonard see you.

She only let out a low growl, pressed against the wall. It was the first time Id ever heard her growl at someone she trusted. The sound was unsettling, almost terrifying.

Somethings not right, the vet muttered. She used to rush to me like a child to its father. Whats happened?

Im afraid shes ill, I said, my voice trembling.

Could be a tick, or a bite? Dr. Harris mused. We need to examine her.

I gently lifted Bella by her collar. She offered little resistance but was far from eager to climb out. When it became clear she wouldnt move, she finally shuffled out, still casting nervous glances back into the house.

Somethings stirring! the vet exclaimed, peering inside.

I rushed over and froze.

At the back of the doghouse, curled up on an old blanket, lay a small boy. He clutched a dirty ragdoll to his chest, his face pale, eyes rimmed with tears, his clothes tattered and soaked. He wore no shoes. He looked as if abandoned, caught between reality and a nightmare.

What on earth? the doctor whispered, disbelief etched on his face.

Its not a thing, its a person, I breathed, my heart hammering. Its a child! I cant lift him alone please help.

Give me a moment, Dr. Harris said, adjusting his glasses and peering carefully inside. Bella growled again, but I soothed her, Its all right, Bella. We wont hurt anyone. Youre brave.

I carried the dog to the verandah while the vet gently cradled the boy. He awoke, rubbed his eyes, looked around in terror and began to sob quietly.

I held him close. He was as light as a feather, as if no one had fed him properly for weeks. His shirt was filthy, his trousers ragged, his legs covered in scrapes.

Who are you, little one? I asked softly.

He did not answer, only stared at me with wide, frightened eyes, as if awaiting a reprimand.

Ill call the police, I said, heading back to the house. A child cant just be left like this. Someone must be looking for him.

The vet stopped me. Hold on. I know this boy. His name is Tommy. Hes the son of Olivia Olivia the troublemaker from our old secondary school.

Oliviashe was the girl whod once been popular and cheerful, then slipped into a dark path. Shed fallen into the underworld of illegal drinking, borrowing, and selfdestruction. After a first conditional sentence, she didnt change. She later robbed a postman, stole pensioners savings, got caught again, and while in prison gave birth to Tommy. The child was placed in a childrens home straight away.

Did they release her? I asked.

Yes. Recently. She took him out of care, but not to love him. More to prove she could still be a mother.

She was never sober, often sleeping off drinks, leaving the baby alone. People argued she should lose parental rights. Tommy, barely five, could barely speak, knowing nothing of home, family, or affection.

A bitter, angry tide rose within me. I remembered my own yearning for children, the two times Id nearly had a baby, the two times Id lost them. Doctors could not explain the cause; each case was a blow to the heart. And now, here was a living, trembling child, abandoned like a broken toy.

Ill keep him for now, I said firmly. Ill feed him, warm him, bathe him. Then Ill take him to Olivia, so she sees what she does with her own son.

I fetched warm water, a soft towel, baby soap, and washed Tommy with the tenderness I would give my own child. I dressed him in my old tshirt, wrapped him in a blanket, and set a plate before him. He ate quickly, as if fearing the food would be taken away.

Just then my husband, Andrew, walked intall, strong, with kind eyes. Love, did you need anything? Ive brought some bread He paused, eyes widening. Whos that?

This is Tommy, Olivias son. I found him in Bellas doghouse.

Andrew looked at the boy, then at me. He knew how I ached for a child of my own, how each stray infant tore at my heart. He said softly, What do you need?

Buy him shoes and new clotheseverything new, I replied.

He didnt ask any more questions. He left, and an hour later returned with bags full of clothing, a pair of tiny boots, and a bright red toy car. Tommys face lit up for the first time in days, a genuine laugh escaping his lips.

Later, when he fell asleep, he whispered, I dont want to go back to mum

Sleep, little one, I murmured. No ones taking you away.

Andrew wrapped his arm around me. He doesnt want her, and I understand.

The next day I drove to Olivias crumbling housewindows shattered, the smell of stale beer and tobacco thick in the air. Inside was dark, dirty, and empty. The smell of smoke made my throat ache.

Whos there? Is anyone home? a hoarse voice called. Is my baby here?

Olivia, its meEmma Clarke, I answered. We went to school together.

She didnt recognise me at first. What do you want?

Your son is with me. I found him in the doghouse. He was barefoot, hungry, terrified.

Then what? Let him stay? Where did he sleep?

Youre his mother! How can you speak like that?

Youwhat are you, to lecture me? Olivia shouted, eyes flashing. Give me my boy back or youll feel my belt!

I wont let you take him, I said, meeting her gaze steadily. Ill call the police. A child shouldnt grow up in a place like this.

Olivia suddenly softened. Wait dont call the police Hes all I have my blood

Then sort your house, get your life in order, and well talk, I replied.

A week passed without anyone coming. When I returned, the scene was heartbreaking: Olivia lay in bed, lifeless, a hangoverinduced heart failure having claimed her. Emma and Andrew buried her, and after that sorrowful episode we decided to adopt Tommy as our own.

Months of checks, interviews, and assessments later, the local authority gave its blessing. Tommy became our son.

Two years have gone by. Spring has returned in full. In the garden Tommy now runs, clearly grown, laughing and playing with Bellas new litter of puppiesthe very dogs that saved him that stormy night.

Careful, lad! I shout.

Nothing, love, the boys make a man of you! Andrew jokes, adjusting the little cap on our daughter, Darina, who turned one last year. She giggles in her baby babble, watching her brother with adoration. In that moment my heart feels whole. We are a familynot just by blood, but by the will of our hearts.

What a remarkable tale of compassion, mercy, and love.