She has to save them. That's her job. That's all her job's ever been. She has to sit on top of them, explode into feathers and squawks when needed, brood for days when they're stolen, make countless vows that she'll do better next time.
She likes her jokes, Mother Hen does.
Easter Bunny can steal them every time. He pleads, too, every time, of the scarcity of eggs on the planet, of how hard it is for an honest bunny to make a living nowadays, of the lack of belief in himself, the fake plastic hunts for things that were never hidden in the first place... but that's only if he's caught. And he rarely is, despite Mother Hen's best efforts.
He'll be coming soon, she knows that much. A fresh clutch came a few hours ago and she's been warming them since. He likes fresh eggs the best. That much she knows. So she sits, and she waits. This time, lures of fresh grain or water will not move her. She will protect them. Someone calls her name, but she doesn't answer, even if it's Father Rooster in all his splendor, so handsome in his coat of feathers that she stitched herself. He'll come if she moves, she knows. He'll come, and he'll take them, and they'll be gone, and they'll be dead. She wants children so badly.
Someone calls her again, more insistently. She will not move. Her resolve is set.
Now the farmer comes striding in in dirty overalls. He picks her up and she squawks violently. Not this time then.
He takes her to a knife.
Easter Bunny sneaks up to the warm straw....