Three years ago, she had asked me to be in her wedding party. When I told her I was pregnant with twins, she’d been all concerned. How would I manage getting in and out of limos and being on my feet all day? What if the excitement sent me into early labor?

Belle was the one who told me a pregnant bridesmaid would just ruin the pictures of Sallie’s big day.

So I’d said no. The thought still gave me a pang.

Water under the bridge, Momma would say.

I smiled. “You all have a great time at the beach. Maybe I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Absolutely.” She hugged me tight. “Ned and I are having a Christmas party on the tenth. I’ll call you.”

And maybe she would, I thought, as I wheeled the stroller toward the market farm stands. Maybe John and I would have our night out after all. If Momma could watch the twins.

What would I wear?

I bought cookies for Daisy and DJ at the bakery booth. And one for me. Crunching away, I turned the stroller up the row toward Momma’s stall. SISTERS’ FARM, read the sign, after Momma and her sister Elizabeth, who had died when they both were just girls. But the tables were empty. Momma wasn’t there.

My stomach clenched. Mom wouldn’t miss the market the weekend before Thanksgiving. Unless her back was bothering her again.

I stopped by the farm on the way home, bouncing up the rutted gravel drive to the back door. A few goats rambled in and out of their shelter, pulling lazily on bales of hay. As the foliage died, my mother rotated the herd from the woodland perimeter to pastures by the barn.

I’d asked my mother once why she had decided to build a herd of dairy goats instead of finding a job in town.

“Goats are easier to keep than cows. I could do most of the work myself and be home for you girls.” That was our mother, always practical. She looked out over the herd, her face softening. “Besides, goats have personality.”

I’d nodded, but I didn’t get it. I mean, Aunt Phee had personality, too, but I didn’t want to spend all my time with her.

I parked, careful to avoid the puddles from last night’s rain. Daisy held up her arms to be released first.

I set her on her feet. “Stay next to Mommy,” I said, and ducked my head back in to unbuckle DJ.

Daisy took off toward the kids’ paddock, thick with grass, squishy with mud. Empty now, thank the Lord, except for a battered preschool playset my mother had purchased at the church yard sale years ago. “Goats!”

“No, Daisy,” I said. “No baby goats. Not until springtime.”

Undeterred, she toddled faster. “Slide!”

Hitching DJ and his blanket on my hip and my giant bag over my shoulder, I ran after her, catching her by the back of her full skirt. She stopped. Dropped. Fell on her bottom, right into a puddle. Shocked, she looked for my reaction, her little mouth comically ajar, wavering between tears and outrage.