God Didn’t Kill My Pet Chicken, But I Blamed Him Anyway

A Story About Control, Faith, and the Inner Defenses That Outlast the Danger

Image created by author on Sora

The night my mum killed my chicken, we had dinner.

Not a chicken — my chicken. I’d raised her from a tiny puffball into a full-grown, feathered shadow who followed me everywhere. She was my companion, my sidekick, my backyard amusement. I used to put her on the trampoline and bounce gently while she flapped and squawked like she was flying. Hey, it made sense when I was a kid.

At the time, we were living on the grounds of a Bible college. My dad was training to become a pastor, which meant no paycheck. My mum had twenty dollars to feed us for the week. She did what she could with frozen peas and tinned spaghetti, but some weeks, even the tins ran out.

That week, the chicken disappeared.

And that night, she was served on a plate — roasted, next to mashed potatoes and the last of the vegetables.

My mum said it calmly: “We needed food.”

She wasn’t being cruel. She was being a survivor. And sitting at that table, staring at what used to be my pet, I felt something inside me lock into place. A decision.