Elena López stood rooted in the mud, clutching Blanquita against her chest as if the small goat were the last solid thing left in the world.

The drizzle had thickened into a cold, persistent rain, blurring the dirt road until it swallowed the shape of the car that had just carried her children away.

Roberto. Daniel. Sofía.

Their names echoed in her mind long after the engine noise faded. There had been no final wave, no backward glance through the window. Just dust, rain, and the quiet finality of abandonment.

The road stretched empty before her, like a sentence without an ending.

At her feet lay the old suitcase—its cracked leather softened by decades of use, its metal clasps dulled by time. It had belonged to Antonio’s father, then his grandfather, passed down like a promise that things endured. Now it lay half-sunken in the mud, as discarded as the people it carried.

Blanquita bleated softly, her small body trembling. Her fur was as white as fresh milk, now speckled with rain and dirt. Elena pressed her cheek against the goat’s warm neck, breathing in the familiar smell of hay and earth, a scent that reminded her of mornings when life still made sense.

“Mom, this is for the best,” Roberto’s voice replayed in her head, calm and distant. “The land is sold. The money will make sure you don’t suffer.”

Sold.

The word felt like a knife.

Antonio stood beside her, his shoulders slumped beneath a soaked cotton shirt. Fifty years of marriage had bent his spine but not yet broken him. He placed a hand over Elena’s, steady but cold.

“They really left,” Elena whispered, her voice breaking at last. “They left us like we were nothing.”

Antonio swallowed hard. “We’ve survived worse,” he said, though his eyes betrayed him. Fear shimmered there, raw and unguarded.

Blanquita was all that remained of the small herd that had fed them for decades. Eight goats once filled their mornings with sound and purpose. Seven had been sold alongside the land, the house, the furniture, and the walls that had witnessed births, illnesses, laughter, and grief.

The children had decided everything in one afternoon.

Elena remembered the early mornings, hands numb from cold as she milked goats before dawn. The cheese she carried to market. The jars of preserves she boiled and sealed while Antonio repaired fences and roofs. Every peso saved, every sacrifice made so their children could study, could leave, could dream.

“And now we’re the burden,” Elena murmured. “Now we’re in the way.”

The rain deepened. The fields dissolved into mist on one side of the road; on the other, a rotting fence leaned like a tired old man. The sky was the color of wet ash.

Then came the sound of an engine.

A rusted truck crept toward them, its tires cutting through mud. It stopped with a tired groan, and a man leaned out—a bearded face beneath a grease-stained cap, eyes lined with concern rather than suspicion.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Elena wiped her face with her sleeve, straightening her back out of habit more than pride. “We need to get to San Miguel,” she said quietly.

The man took in the scene—the suitcase, the goat, the soaked couple standing in the middle of nowhere. “Get in,” he said without hesitation. “I’m headed that way.”

Antonio hoisted the suitcase, surprised again by its weight, and helped Elena climb into the cab. Blanquita curled into Elena’s lap, unusually calm, as if she sensed safety for the first time that day.

They drove in silence for a while, rain tapping against metal.

“What happened?” the driver asked gently.

Elena hesitated, then let the words fall. “Our children sold our home. Without asking us.”

“They said they’d send money,” Antonio added bitterly. “As if that replaces a life.”

“And where are you going now?” the man asked.

“A boarding house,” Antonio replied. “Doña Mercedes. Near the square.”

The driver nodded slowly. “She’s decent,” he said, then paused. “But she doesn’t allow animals.”