I hadn’t meant to stop at the auction. Grief sat heavy on my chest, and all I wanted was to go home. But then I saw them three little goats, shivering together in the cold. The auctioneer called them “unsold leftovers,” bound for feed.
Something in me broke. My mother’s last words came rushing back: “Don’t leave the soft things behind.” So I didn’t. I took them all.
That night, in a pen I threw together from scrap wood and wire, the goats climbed into my lap and pressed their warm bodies against me. For the first time since her funeral, I laughed. For the first time, I felt a spark of hope.
I thought I was saving them. But really they were saving me.
Credit to the rightful owner~
