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.