Far across the pasture, another lesson unfolded in a quieter way. A mother cow named her calves after the soft petals that greeted their first breath: Rose, Lily, Daisy. Then came the last one, stumbling, damaged, hilariously out of place: Cinderblock. Cruel, absurd, and oddly tender, the joke lands where all good humor does—on the thin line between how we see ourselves and how the world names us.
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