First Broken Love

Her tears were so large. As she talked, they slowly filled her eyes, turning them into puddles.

I knew she’d been having trouble. I’d hoped against hope that going to college would shift her attention. And it has, some. But the trouble has stayed with her, because it is in her heart.

I never liked the boy, and it’s just as well that I was blind to the extent of their romance, because my inner mama bear surely would have tried to meddle, not that it would have done any good.

She was unable to settle down, flitting about the house, snacking, changing clothes, finding things to bake. When we finally sat face to face and started talking about her life—school pressures, roommate issues—the tears came.

It was all to be expected, I thought, recalling my own fraught freshman year.

Then she told me about the relationship that she’d been trying to end with this boy, and she sobbed.

I suppose this is to be expected too: the interminable heartbreak of a broken first love. 

Still, my girl was wounded, and all reason escaped me. I pulled her onto my lap and wrapped my arms around her, as she buried her face in my shirt and soaked it with her tears.