The Day I Saved Three Baby Goats and Finally Understood My Mother’s Last Words
I never planned to stop at that roadside auction. I was just leaving Mom’s old house, her sweaters in the trunk, fighting back tears, when a sign caught my eye: “FARM SALE – TODAY ONLY.”

Inside, I wasn’t looking to buy anything—until I saw them. Three tiny goats, shivering in a corner pen. The seller called them “unsold leftovers.” That word cut deep.

The night before Mom passed, she whispered something I never understood: “Don’t leave the soft things behind.” Staring at those goats, I finally did. I scooped them up and said, “I’ll take them.” No plan, no farm, just a car full of grief and Mom’s old blankets.

I named them after her favorite flowers—Daisy, Violet, and Clover. The nights were hard, the bottles constant, but slowly their cries—and mine—turned into peace.

Grief, I realized, isn’t just in the past. Sometimes it shows up soft, shivering, asking to be held. I didn’t leave the soft things behind. I brought them home. And in saving them, maybe they saved me too.