I wasn’t planning to stop. I was just driving home after clearing out the last of my mother’s things—her sweaters, mostly—and trying to hold it together. That’s when I saw the hand-painted sign by the road: “FARM SALE – TODAY ONLY.” Almost without thinking, I pulled in.
The air smelled like old hay and dust. I didn’t plan to buy anything—until I saw them: three baby goats huddled in a corner pen. One was brown, one white, and one a patchwork of both, all with shaky legs and wide, nervous eyes. They looked too young to be on their own.
I asked about them. The man running the pen said they were the last ones left and didn’t expect anyone to take them. His words hit harder than I expected.
The night before she passed, my mom whispered something I didn’t fully understand: “Don’t leave the soft things behind.” At the time, I thought she meant her dog—or maybe just memories. But standing in front of those tiny, fragile goats, her words echoed clearly. She wasn’t talking about things. She was talking about life—the overlooked, gentle kind.
Without a plan, I said, “I’ll take them.”
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