My eight-year-old son found a chicken outside and brought her home. Not from a farm, not from a neighbour we knew, not from any situation where a chicken should reasonably be collected and relocated by a child. She was just outside, wandering with confidence, and apparently that was enough to begin the acquisition process.
By the time I understood what was happening, the chicken had a name. Ginger. Water had been offered. Food was being discussed. My son had already moved from discovery to emotional ownership in about seven minutes, which, frankly, is faster than most deal teams move from teaser to IOI.
Watching it unfold made me laugh, but it also made me think about how quickly affection can outrun diligence. My son saw something vulnerable and interesting, and his heart immediately built the future state. Ginger would be safe. Ginger would be happy. Ginger clearly belonged with us now. The practical questions arrived later, slightly annoyed that they had not been invited to the first meeting.
Where did this chicken come from? Did she belong to someone? Could we keep her? Should we keep her? What exactly was our poultry operating model? These are reasonable questions. They just had the poor timing of showing up after the naming ceremony.
And that is where it started to feel uncomfortably familiar to M&A. A lot of deals begin with a similar kind of emotional momentum. The opportunity looks interesting. The strategic fit feels promising. The growth story starts writing itself. People begin imagining what the combined company could become before they have fully understood what they are actually inheriting.
By the time the harder questions arrive, the organization has often already become attached to the deal. How compatible are the systems? Who owns the key decisions? What disruption are we carrying into Day 1? How much of the value depends on assumptions that have not been properly tested? These questions are not unreasonable, but once momentum has built, they can start to feel like interruptions rather than necessary diligence.
That is the subtle shift. The organization moves from asking whether the deal should happen to figuring out how to make it work. Those are not the same question. One protects judgement. The other protects momentum.
My son was not being careless. He was being kind. He saw a lost animal, felt responsible for her, and did what a child with a big heart does. He tried to help first and asked practical questions second. Honestly, there is something beautiful about that. I would rather have a child who notices a wandering chicken and wants to protect her than one who walks past because it is inconvenient.
The diligence questions arrived later, looking slightly offended that they had missed the first meeting.
This is why integration often inherits problems that were visible earlier. Not because people did not see them, but because they saw them after the deal had already become Ginger. Named. Loved. Defended. Suddenly, raising concerns feels less like discipline and more like being the person trying to take away the chicken.
Ginger, for the record, did not become a permanent member of our household. By evening, her actual family from a couple of streets down came to collect her, which was both a relief and a small heartbreak for my son. The acquisition was unwound before close, if we want to be technical about it.
But that made the lesson even clearer. Sometimes the thing you are excited to bring home already belongs somewhere else. Sometimes the right answer is not integration, but return. And whether it is a chicken in the neighbourhood or a new deal, once something has been emotionally adopted, objectivity becomes much harder to maintain.
