HE REFUSED TO LET GO OF THE CHICKEN—AND I COULDN’T BEAR TO TELL HIM WHY SHE WAS GONE YESTERDAY

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That’s Nugget.  

She’s not just a chicken. She’s his chicken.  

Every morning before school, he runs outside barefoot—even in the cold—to look for her. He speaks to her like she’s a classmate, shares details about spelling quizzes and what he believes clouds are made of. She follows him like a dog. Waits by the porch until he comes home.  

We thought it was charming at first. Then we realized it was more than that.  

After his mom left last year, he became quiet. Stopped smiling the way he used to. Wouldn’t even eat his pancakes, and those used to be his favorite. But then Nugget started hanging around—this awkward puff of yellow that wandered into our yard from who-knows-where.  

And something clicked.  

He smiled again. Started eating. Sleeping. Laughing. All because of this one silly bird.  

Yesterday, Nugget was missing.  

We searched everywhere. Coop, woods, roadside. No feathers, no tracks, nothing. He cried himself to sleep with her picture clutched in his tiny fist.  

And then this morning—there she was.  

Just standing in the driveway like nothing had happened. A little muddy. A scratch on her beak. But alive.  

He picked her up, eyes shut tight like he was afraid she might vanish again. Wouldn’t let her go. Not for breakfast, not for school, not for anything.  

And as I stood there watching him, I noticed something tied around her leg.  

A tiny red ribbon. Frayed at the edges.  

And a tag I hadn’t noticed before.  

It read:

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