I never planned to stop at that roadside auction.
I was just driving home from Mom’s old place—clearing out the last box of her sweaters, trying not to cry into the steering wheel—when I saw the sign: “FARM SALE – TODAY ONLY.” Something in me hit the brakes.
The place smelled like dust and diesel and old hay. I wasn’t looking to buy anything. But then I saw them—three tiny goats, huddled in a corner pen. One brown, one white, and one mottled like some half-drawn sketch. Shivering. Way too young to be separated from their mother.
The guy running the pen told me they were “unsold leftovers.” Meant for feed.
That word—leftovers—hit like a slap.
You see, the night before my mother passed, she’d looked at me through her oxygen mask and whispered something I couldn’t make sense of at the time:
“Don’t leave the soft things behind.”
