My sister asked if I could watch her son, Reuben, while she traveled for work. “Just a few days,” she said. “Take him to the farm. Show him something real.”
So I packed up Reuben—eleven years old, pale as milk, with hair like corn silk—and brought him out to my place in the valley. No Wi-Fi. No screens. Just fresh air, animals, and the kind of quiet that makes city folks fidget.
Reuben didn’t complain, but he looked like he’d been dropped into a living history museum that smelled like hay and goats.
Day one, I had him muck stalls. Day two, we fixed a busted fence out back. I kept saying, “This is good for you—builds grit.” He just nodded, dragging his boots through the mud.
Then on day three, something shifted.
I saw him crouched by the chicken coop, whispering to one of the hens like they were best friends. I asked what he was doing and he said, “She’s the only one who doesn’t get mad when I mess up.”
That stopped me.
Later that evening, I caught him feeding the smallest goat—the one most of us overlooked. He’d named her “Marshmallow.” Said she looked lonelier than he felt.
Continue reading on next page…