The pediatrician said it was normal – the withdrawal, the nightmares, the loss of appetite after the divorce. What wasn’t normal was how one scruffy chicken changed everything. From the moment Buttercup (as my son named her) appeared in our backyard, she and Danny became inseparable.
She’d wait by his bus stop every afternoon, pecking at his shoelaces until he picked her up. At night, she’d roost on his windowsill like a feathery guardian. When his father forgot to call on his birthday, Buttercup sat patiently while Danny cried into her golden feathers.
Yesterday’s terror when she vanished turned to overwhelming relief this morning when we found her on the porch with a note tied to her foot: “Her name was Marigold. She saved me too.” The handwriting shook slightly, like the person had cried while writing it.
Danny hasn’t stopped holding her since. Not for meals, not for school, not even when the principal called to say chickens weren’t allowed in class. As I watch him sleep with Buttercup tucked safely under his arm, I understand some bonds transcend species. This isn’t just a boy and his pet – it’s two broken souls who found each other when they needed it most.
