sympathy

I was washing some chicken to cook for dinner when Lauren came and stood next to me.

"What animal is that made of?" she asked.

"Chicken."

"Chicken? Ohhh, that's so sad that we have to kill the chickens, Mom."

"I know," I told her. I wondered if I should say the next thing that came to mind, and then said it anyway. "But aren't they delicious?"

"Yes. But it's so sad for us to kill them, Mom. And," she paused, "it's sad for the chickens."