“We’ll find him a good home — I promise.”

I don’t say anything because I hate it when people promise things they can’t be sure of.

“Did you ask Micah yet?” Ivy asks me.

“No. You know he probably won’t be able to take him. Where would they keep him?”

“They could make a stall in their garage!”

I sigh. I wish I could be that hopeful.

“Or maybe Sierra could take him. They have that big backyard.”

“Their yard is a little fancy for a pony who will poop all over it,” I say.

Ivy wipes her face with the back of her hand. “Well, at least I’m trying!” she yells. “If you really loved Rainbow, you’d be trying harder to find him a home!”

I think of all the ways I could respond to this. None of them are very nice and all of them would make my dad feel terrible, so instead, I get up and go outside to find Rainbow.

He’s grazing on the lawn, swishing his tail, calm and unconcerned as always. I hug him and cry quietly into his dusty coat. I pet him and pet him and tell him what a good pony he is and how sorry I am that we can’t keep him with us. He never pauses as he chomps on the grass. He just lets me cry into his back, swishing me with his tail, until I’m all cried out.

Maybe I should be glad he seems so indifferent. But really, it doesn’t make things easier at all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

We spend another week packing like crazy. With each box packed, the house feels more empty. Over the weekend, we have the yard sale I’ve been dreading. My mom and dad have set up tables in a big U shape in the driveway and placed all the stuff we put in the Yard Sale boxes out on the tables for people to look over and take away. My parents didn’t bother to put prices on anything because they couldn’t agree on what to charge. Instead, people offer a few dollars for something and my parents take it. Sometimes Ivy pipes up and tells people something is worth way more than they’ve offered and my parents look horrified but try to laugh it off. They usually end up getting a tiny bit more and then Ivy looks all smug.

I hate it.

Sometimes people we know stop by. I can’t tell if they’re really interested in finding a deal, supporting my parents, or curious about what happened. It’s uncomfortable. Every time I recognize someone, I pretend I need to get something in the house and wait inside until they leave.