We only planned to visit my aunt’s farm for the weekend. It was the kind of place where time slowed down—wide open skies, a quiet rhythm, and a few goats that looked at you like they had secrets. I figured the kids would spend their time collecting eggs and chasing chickens. I didn’t expect anything more.
But that changed quickly.
After breakfast on our first morning there, my daughter Maeve came into the yard holding a tiny black-and-white kitten. Her hands trembled a little, but her smile was calm and sure.
“He was crying by the shed,” she said gently. “So I picked him up.”
At first, I assumed it was one of the barn cats. But then I noticed something concerning—a piece of string tied around the kitten’s neck. It looked like it had been there for some time, leaving a faint mark in the fur. The kitten, small and quiet, seemed unusually tired for such a young animal.
“Where exactly did you find him?” I asked Maeve.
“Near the fence,” she replied. “He was all alone.”
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