That’s Nugget.

To most, she’s just a chicken. But to my son Finn, she’s everything.

Since his mom left last year, Finn hasn’t been the same. He stopped laughing, wouldn’t eat, barely spoke. Then Nugget appeared in our yard—this fluffy little burst of yellow—and something in him shifted.

He smiled again. Started eating pancakes. Started sleeping through the night.

Every morning, rain or shine, he’d run out barefoot just to talk to her—about school, clouds, life. She followed him everywhere like a puppy.

But yesterday, Nugget disappeared.

We searched everywhere. Nothing. Finn cried himself to sleep clutching her photo.

Then this morning, there she was—muddy, scratched, but alive. He ran to her and held on like he’d never let go.

I noticed a red ribbon on her leg. A tiny tag read:
“Returned. She chose to come back.”

Later that day, a rusty truck pulled up. An elderly woman stepped out and said, gently,
“I think you have my chicken.”

She could see how much Nugget meant to Finn. She knelt beside him and said,
“Nugget told me you’re very brave.”

Finn whispered, “She talks?”

The woman smiled. “In her own way, she does.”

She stayed for dinner, told us stories, and before she left, gave Finn a little book about a bird who always finds her way home.

The next morning, Finn was up early, Nugget safe in her coop. As he boarded the bus, he smiled and waved to her, clutching the book to his chest.