My five-year-old son came charging into the kitchen like he had just uncovered something priceless.
“Mommy, look what I found!”
I was standing at the sink, hands deep in hot, soapy water, scrubbing dried egg yolk off a pan that refused to cooperate. “If it’s another bug, I don’t want to see it.”It’s not a bug,” he said, clearly offended.
I turned, ready to give him a quick smile and go back to the dishes—but then I saw what he was holding.
A purple plastic Easter egg. Cracked down one side. Smudged with dirt.Something about it felt… wrong.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“By the fence,” he said casually. “It was hiding.”
The word landed oddly.
“Hiding?”
He crouched low, grinning, then popped back up. “Like this. Open it.”
I dried my hands slowly and took the egg. It felt heavier than it should have. Something rattled inside.
