© Bruce Goodman 26 July 2015
(This is written for the Cherished Blogfest. It is the third and final day of the blogfest, and this is the third story of a cherished thing. I depart for this “fest” from my daily fiction stance to the non-fiction. Todays cherished thing, however, is not about me; it’s about a friend of mine – name changed and all. Click here to find fellow bloggers blogging for the Cherished Blogfest!)
When Rupert was found as a baby, in the dead of winter, in a cardboard box on a snow-covered park bench, he was wearing a pendant. It was a piece of waxed dark string holding a slightly curved fragment of black coral inset with an opal. Possibly it had some monetary value. Perhaps the mother, unable to care for her baby, had placed her only valuable possession in the box and hoped someone nice would find it.
Rupert was adopted out. His adopted parents weren’t particularly nice people. They couldn’t have kids of their own and were desperate for self-fulfilment. Adopting Rupert was the solution. He was always unhappy. His adopted parents were bullies. He longed to discover his real mother.
Rupert was always told that when he reached the age of sixteen he would be given the pendant to wear. His sixteenth birthday arrived! Could he have the pendant? It was his sole link with his unknown past.
“Nah,” said his adopted mother. “We’ve spent enough on you. I’m selling it.”
And she did. She sold the cherished thing. She got seven dollars and fifteen cents for it.