Driving home from clearing out Mom’s house, I stopped at a roadside auction and found three shivering baby goats, labeled “unsold leftovers.” Mom’s last words, “Don’t leave the soft things behind,” echoed in my mind. I bought them impulsively, naming them Maple, Clover, and Pepper, despite having no farm or plan. My neighbor, Miss Edna, a former dairy farmer, taught me to care for them. We set up a garage pen, but the HOA demanded their removal within 30 days. Feeling defeated, Miss Edna suggested her cousin’s affordable five-acre farm. I
emptied my savings, sold Mom’s keepsakes, and moved the goats there. The farm needed work—leaky roof, overgrown weeds—but with Miss Edna’s guidance and community support, it became a healing haven. The goats’ playful nudges mended my grief. Mom’s words meant embracing life’s tender moments, saving what matters. By rescuing the goats, I found purpose and rebuilt my heart.
