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....
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