Page 56 of The Goat Next Door

Her gaze drifts toward the window, toward the line of trees where the Gilded Goat sits across the pasture.

“And the town let him believe that,” she adds. “They like having someone like that. Someone solid. Someone who doesn’t move.”

I make a small sound under my breath. “That’s… convenient for everyone except the person doing it.”

Her mouth twitches like she almost laughs at that, but doesn’t fully commit.

“I think that’s part of why I left,” she says, shifting slightly on the counter. “I love this place. I really do. But if I stay too long, I start feeling like I’m folding myself into something too small. Like I can’t breathe properly.”

I glance up at her. “So you just… go.”

“Yeah,” she smiles and says simply. “I go.”

Her eyes lift, brighter now.

“There’s so much world out there, Emmy,” she says.

“I’m aware,” I say. “I’ve seen it on social media.”

“That’s basically the same thing as traveling,” she says confidently.

“Good, then I’m culturally well-traveled.”

That gets a real laugh out of her.

“There are so many places where nobody knows your name, and the sky looks different every few hundred miles, and people build entire lives around things you’ve never even thought about before.”

Then her expression shifts—more subtle, heavier. The brightness doesn’t disappear, but it gets complicated, like a second layer sliding over it.

“But it’s not simple,” she admits. “It’s missing birthdays because you’re in a different time zone and trying to pretend you’re not checking the clock every five minutes because you know bedtime is happening somewhere you’re not.”

She turns the crayon slower again, almost absently.

“And Sophie…” her voice softens again. “Sophie doesn’t get less real just because I’m not here. She grows. She changes.”

I nod. “That’s kind of what kids do. Unfortunately for all parties involved.”

“Exactly,” she says. “It feels deeply unfair that she keeps upgrading without me present. And sometimes I come back and she’s learned a new word or stopped needing help with something I thought I’d always be there for.”

Her throat works once, a small swallow.

“And I’m always happy when I see her,” she says quickly. “Always.”

I don’t say anything to that because I’m not sure there’s a comforting response.

“And then there’s this split-second—just a flash—where I feel like I could stay here forever. But then I land somewhere new and I’m like—oh. Right. This is why I do it.”

She smiles faintly and sets the crayon down carefully on the counter.

“If I stayed here all the time,” she says, more honestly now, “I think I’d start resenting it. The sameness. The walls closing in.”

She shakes her head.

“I also know what she has here,” Lauren adds smiling. “She has stability. She has her dad. She has this place where the floorboards don’t change under her every six months. And that matters more than anything I could give her by dragging her through airports and hotel breakfasts and all the instability I live in.”

A small, rueful breath leaves her.

“So I live in the in-between,” she says. “I leave, I miss her until it feels physical, I come back, I try to fit myself back into her days without disturbing the shape of them too much… and then I leave again before I start resenting either version of myself.”