“The rooster is dead,” my 15-year old son declared, barely holding back the tears I know he felt too old to shed. He’d walked into my bedroom that morning while my husband and I were still in bed, browsing our phones and putting off getting ready for another busy day. It was said as a statement, but the accusation was in his eyes. His big, brown, usually playful eyes told us his beloved rooster was dead and it was our fault. “Too long,” was all he could get out before he walked away and left for school. Ugh. Gut punch. My husband didn’t say a word. He just sighed, got out of bed…