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 find her. He talks to her like she’s a classmate, tells her about spelling tests and what he thinks clouds are made of. She follows him like a dog. Waits by the porch until he gets home.
We thought it was cute at first. Then we realized it was more than that.
After his mom left last year, he got quiet. Stopped smiling the way he used to. Wouldn’t even touch his pancakes—and those used to be sacred to him. 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 goofy bird.
Yesterday, Nugget was gone.
We searched everywhere. Coop, woods, roadside. No feathers, no tracks, nothing.
He cried himself to sleep with her photo clutched in his little fist.
And then this morning—there she was.
Just standing in the driveway like nothing happened.
A little muddy. A scratch on her beak. But alive.
He scooped her up, eyes shut tight like he was afraid she might disappear 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 seen before.
It said:
“THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF HER. SHE SAVED ME, TOO.”
I stared at the tag, my mind racing.
Who wrote this? Where had Nugget been?
That’s when I noticed something else—just beneath the message, scribbled in faint pencil:
“Her name used to be Lucy.”
Lucy?
I gently took the tag, careful not to wake my son, who had fallen asleep curled up on the couch with Nugget in his arms. His grip on her never loosened, not even in sleep. And she didn’t try to wriggle away—just nestled into him like she belonged there.
I stepped outside and sat on the porch, holding the tag in my hands like it was something sacred. The early morning sun was rising, casting a warm glow across the yard. A soft breeze stirred the trees. And for a moment, it felt like the world was holding its breath—like something big had just happened.
I thought about the ribbon. The tag. The message.
Nugget—or Lucy—had been somewhere. With someone. Long enough for them to notice her. Long enough for her to make an impact. Just like she had with my son.
I didn’t know who they were, or what had happened in the time she was gone. But someone out there had also needed her. And they had let her go.
Maybe they saw the name on her collar. Maybe they followed her home.
Or maybe they just knew… she had more work to do.
That night, I tucked my son into bed and kissed his forehead. Nugget was already perched at the foot of his bed, eyes closed, wings gently rising and falling with each breath.
He opened his eyes sleepily and asked, “Do you think she missed me?”
I smiled. “I think she came back because she missed you more.”
And in the silence that followed, I silently thanked whoever had let her go… and silently promised I’d never let her go again.
