I hadn’t planned to stop. I was just driving home after sorting through the last of my mother’s things—mostly her sweaters—and trying not to fall apart. Then I noticed a hand-painted sign by the roadside: “FARM SALE – TODAY ONLY.” Without really thinking, I pulled off the road.
The air smelled of dust and old hay. I wasn’t looking to buy anything—until I spotted them: three baby goats nestled together in a corner pen. One brown, one white, and one mottled with both colors, all with wobbly legs and wide, anxious eyes. They were far too young to be alone.
Curious, I asked the man in charge. He said they were the last ones left, expecting no one would take them. His words hit me harder than I expected.
The night before she died, my mom whispered something I didn’t quite understand: “Don’t leave the soft things behind.” At the time, I thought she meant her dog—or maybe memories. But standing before those tiny, fragile goats, her message became clear. She wasn’t talking about things. She meant life—the gentle, overlooked kind.
