My sister begged me to watch her son Reuben while she flew out for work. “Just a few days,” she said. “Take him to the farm. Show him something real.”
So I brought him—eleven, pale, nervous—to my place in the valley. No Wi-Fi. No screens. Just chores, chickens, and quiet. At first, he trudged through mud with wide eyes, trying hard not to complain.
By day three, I saw a shift. He crouched by the coop, whispering to a hen. “She doesn’t yell when I mess up,” he said softly. Later, he fed our runt goat, Marshmallow. “She looks lonelier than me.”
That night, I called my sister, finally asking the questions I should’ve asked years ago.