She found the golden egg in the corner of the coop. With no way of knowing which of the hens laid it, she took it inside to her husband and asked what he thought.
He told her it was just an odd colour, refused to feel the weight of it, and threatened to have all the chickens killed if she kept on about it.
He was right, probably, the egg wasn’t anything special. She couldn’t ignore its beauty, though, and couldn’t help but wonder what it might become. So she laid it beneath her pillow at night and carried it against her skin during the day, safe and warm, always.
One morning she woke to eggshell on her pillow and her husband’s smug face beside her. So much for being gold, he told her, along with some nonsense about not counting chickens.
It was true. There was no point worrying about unhatched chickens where there were hens already hatched, counting on her. That night, she packed those hens into the back of her van, along with the rest of all she had, and drove off into a golden sunset.