I didn’t even have to open the door to my parents’ house to hear that my daughter was getting in trouble. She had broken a house rule, and now her attitude suggested that she didn’t care. I told her to collect her things and get in the car. Once in the car, though, I could hear the sniffles, and saw that she was desperately trying to hold back tears. And I knew that it was deeper than getting in trouble, that this was a matter of the heart.

“What’s going on, honey?” I asked her as we drove.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I didn’t press the issue. I knew she would eventually spill, but it had to be on her time. So instead I turned the radio up a little more, and just made little comments about the scenery, the songs on the radio, and whatever else that had nothing to do with the root of the problem.

Once home, she disappeared to her room. I set about changing out of my work clothes, starting a load of wash, and getting dinner started. She came down to eat when I called her, and then disappeared again. Remnants of food lay at her place at the table, and I called her back down to clean it up. She did so grudgingly and then disappeared again.

Her backpack was scattered all over the living room, and I called her back down to clean it up. She fought me on it, pointing to her brother that was also a mess offender. And I iterated that I was talking to her at that moment, and would get to her brother on my own.
So she picked up her backpack and slammed it down in a different spot, directly in the way of anyone walking in the room.

We had words. She had attitude. I yelled. She had tears. I had frustration. The backpack was picked up. And me, as sensitive as a prickly pear, asked her, “Does this have to do with your boyfriend?”

“Mom, please. Don’t,” she pleaded. And I bit my tongue as she retreated up the stairs to be alone in her room.

I felt awful. I knew why she was having a hard time. I knew I could have handled the whole situation better. I knew what a broken heart felt like, and I knew that I was failing in allowing her to feel like she could come to me about these things. What I was doing was cementing the natural wall that tends to grow between a mother and her daughter as she gets closer to her teenage years.

I went to the kitchen and pulled out a pot. I warmed some milk and put in chocolate and sugar, vanilla and salt. And I spun the whisk in it to create frothy bubbles. I scooped some ice cream in a bowl for each kid and then poured the hot chocolate in their cups, topping the hot liquid with more milk to cool it. On my daughter’s bowl of ice cream I stuck a square of chocolate. I gave my son his dessert and then brought my daughter’s bowl and hot chocolate to her room. I opened the door and knocked as I entered.

“Come in,” she said from the top of her bunk, and her eyes widened at the sight of the treats. “Ooh! Room service,” she joked. I could see papers scattered around her, various writings scrawled all over them. My daughter was so much like her mother when it came to processing heart matters.

“I’ll let you eat this in here,” I told her, “but it comes with a price.” Her eyebrow rose as she cautiously balanced the hot chocolate to keep it from tipping. “You have to listen to a story.” She rolled her eyes at me, but grinned, nonetheless. “Once upon a time, there was a 5th grade girl,” I started. My 5th grader shot me a dirty look. “This 5th grade girl was named ‘Crissi’”. She laughed. And she listened intently as I told her about the boy I had a crush on all though grade school, how I had chickened out when the opportunity arose that he might get close to me, and how my heart was broken in pieces when he moved on to another girl and forgot all about me. And she laughed with me when I told her of meeting him years later, and discovered that he never made anything of his life and was not nearly as good looking as I had remembered him.

To this she opened up about her break up, and how another girl liked him, and how he would surely move on to her by the next day. I let her in on the little secret of letting him go, to not chase him, and that if he was interested in her he would be back. She argued that if she didn’t try to win him back, he’d never come back. And this led to a larger conversation of what we deserve and don’t deserve, and how we should always feel wanted when we are with someone and avoid being with people who don’t treasure us.

“Thing is, Mom, he wasn’t a loser, and he won’t grow up to be a loser. He’s going to make something of himself. And that’s what I really liked about him.”

“Honey,” I told her. “The fact that you were interested in someone like that, more for their brains than for their coolness, should give you hope that you will find another great guy who will make something of themselves and that you will truly like.”

Her heart was still broken when I left her back to her writings. But the sparkle in her eye was a little bit more apparent. When I thanked her for talking with me, she turned it back around and thanked me. And my heart soared as I kissed her goodnight that night and her smile was back in place.

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