The Egg That Wobbled

Maisie had been waiting for the Annual Brookfield Easter Egg Hunt for exactly twenty-three days. She knew because she had crossed off every single one on the calendar in the kitchen, using a different colored marker each time.

"Today is THE day!" she announced to her dog, Biscuit, who wagged his tail because Maisie was using her excited voice, and Biscuit loved Maisie's excited voice.

She grabbed her basket — the big one with the purple ribbon — and raced out the front door so fast that her mom had to call her back twice. Once for her jacket. Once for her shoes.

The park was already buzzing when they arrived. Kids zigzagged across the grass like bumblebees, their baskets swinging. Eggs were hidden everywhere — tucked into bushes, balanced on fence posts, nestled in patches of clover. Pink ones, blue ones, golden ones wrapped in shiny foil.

Maisie's best friend, Oliver, ran up to her with chocolate already smudged on his chin. "I found SEVEN," he said, holding up his basket.

"I'm going to find seventeen," Maisie said.

"That's not even possible."

"Watch me."

Maisie was a champion finder. She checked all the usual spots — under the slide, behind the big oak tree, inside the tire swing. One by one, her basket filled up. Speckled eggs, striped eggs, eggs with little bunny stickers on them.

She was up to eleven when she spotted something at the very edge of the park, near the old stone wall where the ivy grew thick and tangled. Half-hidden under a blanket of leaves sat an egg she had never seen before.

It wasn't plastic. It wasn't chocolate. It wasn't wrapped in foil.

It was creamy white with tiny brown freckles, about the size of a tennis ball, and it was warm.

Maisie reached down carefully. The egg was smooth and sat perfectly in her palm, like it had been waiting for exactly her hand.

Then it wobbled.

Maisie gasped. She held the egg up to her ear, the way her grandpa held seashells.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Something was inside. Something alive.

"Oliver!" she whisper-shouted, because this felt like a whispering situation. "OLIVER, COME HERE!"

Oliver jogged over, his basket clinking. "Did you find a golden egg? There's supposed to be a golden egg worth—"

"Shh! Listen."

She held the egg between them. They both went perfectly still, which was hard for Oliver because Oliver was never still.

Tap-tap-tap.

Oliver's eyes went as round as the egg itself. "Is that… a real egg?"

Maisie nodded slowly. "I think something's trying to come out."

They looked at each other. This was not part of the Easter egg hunt. This was something else entirely.

"We should tell a grown-up," Oliver whispered.

"We should help it first," Maisie whispered back. "What if it's cold? What if it's scared?"

She unzipped her jacket and wrapped the egg inside like a tiny sleeping bag. She could feel it trembling — or maybe that was her own hands trembling. It was hard to tell.

They carried it to the picnic table under the maple tree, away from all the shrieking and running and basket-swinging. Maisie set the bundled egg down gently, and they watched.

A tiny crack appeared along one side, thin as a hair.

Then another crack.

Then a piece of shell popped off, and a small, wet, golden beak poked through.

"Oh," Maisie breathed.

"Oh wow," Oliver breathed.

The beak opened and closed. It made a sound like a very small squeaky door. More shell fell away, piece by piece, and out tumbled the most ridiculous creature Maisie had ever seen.

It was a duckling.

A tiny, damp, wobbly-headed duckling with feathers that stuck out in every direction like it had just woken up from a very wild nap. It blinked at Maisie with shiny dark eyes, and then it cheeped. One single, perfect cheep.

"Hello," Maisie whispered. "Hello, you."

The duckling took one step forward on its big orange feet and promptly fell over.

Oliver snorted. Then Maisie snorted. Then they were both laughing, softly, because the duckling was looking at its own feet like it didn't understand why they were attached to its body.

"It thinks you're its mom," Oliver said.

"I'm not its mom!" Maisie said. But the duckling had waddled right to her hand and was pressing its tiny body against her fingers. It was warm now, and soft, and its little chest rose and fell so fast.

Maisie felt something bloom in her chest — something big and important that she didn't have a word for yet.

"We need to find its real family," she said quietly.

"How?"

Maisie thought. She thought hard. She remembered that last spring, a family of ducks had lived by the pond on the other side of the stone wall. Her mom had taken her to throw bread — and then her mom had learned that bread wasn't actually good for ducks, so they'd brought peas instead.

"The pond!" Maisie said. "Come on."

She scooped the duckling up, still wrapped in her jacket. Oliver grabbed both their baskets. They climbed carefully over the low part of the stone wall and followed the little path through the trees.

The pond was quiet and green and glassy. Cattails swayed at the edges. A frog plopped into the water as they arrived, startled by their footsteps.

And there — on the far bank — a mother duck sat in a messy nest of reeds and down. Around her, four tiny ducklings peeped and tumbled over each other.

"That's got to be the family," Oliver said.

But Maisie didn't move right away. She looked down at the duckling in her arms. It had nestled against her and gone quiet. Its eyes were half-closed. She could feel its heartbeat, fast as a hummingbird's wings.

She didn't want to put it down.

She really didn't want to put it down.

"Maisie?" Oliver said softly.

Maisie swallowed hard. "I know."

She walked slowly to the edge of the pond. The mother duck raised her head, alert. Maisie crouched down and gently, so gently, unwrapped her jacket and set the duckling in the grass near the water's edge.

For a moment, nothing happened. The duckling just sat there, blinking. The mother duck watched with bright, careful eyes.

Then the duckling cheeped.

And the mother duck cheeped back.

It was a different sound than the one the duckling had made at Maisie. Deeper. Like a question and an answer at the same time.

The duckling took one wobbly step. Then another. Its big feet slapped against the mud. It stumbled, righted itself, stumbled again, and then it was moving — waddling straight toward the nest in a dizzy, determined line.

The mother duck stretched out her neck and nudged the duckling with her beak, turning it around, checking it over, the way Maisie's mom checked her face for fever. Then the mother duck settled her wing, and the duckling disappeared underneath it, tucked in safe with the others.

Five ducklings now, where there had been four.

Maisie sat in the grass and watched for a long time. Oliver sat next to her. Neither of them said anything, because sometimes you find something that words don't fit around.

After a while, Maisie picked up her jacket. It was muddy and had a tiny piece of eggshell stuck to the sleeve. She didn't brush it off.

They walked back over the stone wall. The Easter egg hunt was winding down. Kids were comparing baskets, trading eggs, peeling foil off chocolates.

Maisie's mom waved from the picnic blanket. "How'd you do? How many eggs?"

Maisie looked in her basket. Eleven plastic eggs, various colors. She thought about the creamy white one with the brown freckles. The one that had been warm. The one that wobbled.

"Twelve," she said, smiling. "I found twelve."

Oliver held up a finger. "Technically, one of them found her."

They looked at each other and burst out laughing — the kind of laughter that comes from sharing a secret so good it fills you up like sunlight.

That night, Maisie hung her jacket on the hook by the door. The little piece of eggshell was still there on the sleeve, thin and white as a fingernail moon. She touched it once, gently.

Then she went to the kitchen calendar and drew a tiny duck next to the crossed-off square for today.

Some days you just need to remember.