They expected a storybook escape and got a goat with a grudge instead. Margaret blocked the mudroom like a horned security detail, and the city kids froze, their branded luggage dangling uselessly between them and the straw‑dusted floor. I stayed on the porch, coffee cooling in my hand, letting the silence stretch until even the mountains seemed to lean in. This weekend was never meant to be a curated retreat; it was an ambush, staged by weather and work and the kind of grief you can’t filter into something pretty. Ben’s eyes flicked from Margaret to me, as if trying to remember which of us was more likely to charge. I tipped my mug toward the barn, where the day’s labor waited like a verdict none of them had seen coming, and watched their curated expectations star… Continues…
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