Dad is hunched over in the pig shed. He has the photograph of the two little swaddled babies in his hand and is crying.
“Dad,” I say, “is everything okay? I found that picture while sorting the other day. Mum was asleep, so I pinned it up hoping she would see it.”
“Thank goodness that I found it first, then,” he says.
“Why?”
“You don’t want to know,” he says.
“I think I do,” I say and I sit down.
“He was perfect in every way,” Dad says. I have never seen colder tears than those cascading down the grooves in his old face. It seems as if tears just like these have formed these lines he has. “He had little flippers like you, only his feet were also webbed. He had the sweetest black eyes and –” He’s pointing to the baby on the right.
“It’s Wulf,” I say, and he nods. The little pictur
