I was defeated by my parents’ tortoise. That’s the confession that starts this story. Not defeated in battle or competition, but defeated in understanding. Defeated in recognizing something profound about love and intention that I’d been missing.
My parents have a pet tortoise. He walks around the house, slow and steady, the way tortoises do. Most people think of them as simple creatures—ancient, patient, not particularly expressive. But what happened today changed everything I thought I knew about this animal and about how we show love to the people who matter most.
The tortoise found a chicken nugget under the couch. And instead of eating it himself—which would have been the expected, simple thing—he brought it to my parents as a gift.
Let that sink in for a moment. This tortoise, who could have quietly enjoyed his discovery, chose instead to carry it across the house and present it to the people who care for him. Not because he was trained. Not because he expected anything in return. But because in whatever way tortoises understand relationships, he understood that gifts matter. That offering something you value to someone you care about is meaningful.
Tortoises are actually not slow. That’s what I learned. Every step they take is a well-thought-out decision. They’re not plodding along mindlessly—they’re considering their path, evaluating their choices, moving with intention. What looks like slowness is actually deliberation. What seems like simplicity is actually careful thought.
And this tortoise thought about bringing my parents a chicken nugget.
He showed me a way to love my parents. Not with grand gestures or expensive gifts, but with the kind of thoughtful attention that says: I found something, and I thought of you. I could have kept this for myself, but I wanted you to have it. You matter enough that when I discover something good, my first instinct is to share it with you.
I owe him a chicken nugget. That’s how the story ends, with humor and gratitude. Because this small creature—this pet that many people would overlook or underestimate—taught me something essential about showing love to the people who raised me.
How often do we rush past our parents? Assume they know we love them because we said it once, or because we show up occasionally, or because love should be understood without constant demonstration? How often do we take for granted that they’ll always be there, always understanding, always content with whatever minimal effort we offer?
The tortoise doesn’t think that way. The tortoise finds a chicken nugget and thinks: this should go to them. Not because he owes them. Not because they demanded it. But because every deliberate step he takes is informed by the knowledge that they care for him, and care deserves to be reciprocated.
We could learn from that. We could remember that our parents—who spent years making thoughtful decisions on our behalf, who moved slowly and deliberately through our childhoods making sure we had what we needed—deserve more than our distraction and assumptions. They deserve the chicken nuggets we find. The small discoveries. The moments when we think of them first instead of ourselves.
This isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the tortoise-level intention. The slow, deliberate choice to bring what you’ve found to the people who matter. To recognize that love isn’t just a feeling you carry privately—it’s something you demonstrate, again and again, in ways both large and small.
The tortoise walks around the house making well-thought-out decisions. And one of those decisions was that a chicken nugget belonged with my parents, not with him. That teaching me something about love was more important than satisfying his own hunger.
I was defeated by that. Humbled by it. Made to recognize that I’d been moving too fast, thinking too little, assuming too much. Made to see that if a tortoise can be this intentional about showing care, then I have no excuse for being less thoughtful with the people who gave me everything.
So here’s what I’m taking from this: slow down. Think about your steps. When you find something good—a moment, a thought, a discovery, even just time—consider bringing it to your parents. Not because they need a chicken nugget, but because they deserve to know that when good things happen, you think of them. That your first instinct is to share, not to keep.
The tortoise showed me a way to love my parents. And I owe him a chicken nugget for that lesson. But more than that, I owe my parents the kind of deliberate, thoughtful love that looks slow on the outside but is actually the result of careful intention. The kind that says: I found something good, and I wanted you to have it. Because you matter. Because you’ve always mattered. Because every step I take should be informed by gratitude for every step you took for me.