That’s Nugget. She’s not just a chicken—she’s his chicken. Every morning, my son runs outside barefoot, even in the cold, just to find her. He tells her about spelling tests and what clouds are made of. She follows him everywhere, waiting by the porch until he gets home. At first, we thought it was cute. Then we realized—it was saving him.
After his mom left last year, he shut down. Stopped smiling. Wouldn’t eat his favorite pancakes. Then Nugget showed up—this awkward little puff of yellow that wandered into our yard—and something changed. He laughed again. Slept. Ate. Lived.
Then, yesterday, Nugget disappeared. We searched everywhere—nothing. He cried himself to sleep clutching her photo. But this morning, she was back. A little muddy, a scratch on her beak—but alive. He scooped her up and wouldn’t let go.
That’s when I saw it: a red ribbon tied around her leg, and a tag. It read: “THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF HER. SHE SAVED ME, TOO.” Below that, faint pencil: “Her name used to be Lucy.” Someone else had needed her. Someone else had been saved by her. And then… they let her go.
Maybe they saw our address, maybe not. Maybe they just knew she had more work to do. That night, my son fell asleep with Nugget curled at his feet. “Do you think she missed me?” he whispered. I smiled. “I think she came back because she missed you more.” In the quiet that followed, I silently thanked whoever had let her go… and promised I never would.
