HE NAMED THE CALF “BUTTONS”—BUT ONCE THE TRUCK PULLED UP, GRANDPA WOULDN’T LOOK HIM IN THE EYE
Buttons wasn’t supposed to be anything special. Just a calf born early spring—scrawny, off-balance, always trying to nibble on the drawstrings of my hoodie. But my son Ezra fell for her fast.
Every morning before school, he’d run out in that same “SUPER 08” shirt and help bottle-feed her. Every afternoon, he’d race off the bus just to see if she’d learned anything new. “She follows me now!” he shouted once, grinning like his heart was too big for his chest. The dog would trail behind them, like the three of them were some little squad.
That calf turned into his best friend.
And I should’ve said something sooner.
See, Buttons wasn’t ours to keep. We don’t have the land or the money. She was just being raised for auction, part of a neighbor’s arrangement. Ezra didn’t know. He thought love was enough.
