I love that I have raised a girl who loves so deeply and opens her heart to care about others.
I hate that it makes her so vulnerable to pain and heartache.
When you look at her you might not see it.
She is competitive
And she is fifteen.
She gets her feelings hurt.
She blames herself.
And when she cries she lets me put my arms around her.
And she lets me kiss the top of her head.
And she lets me push back the hair sticking to her tear-stained cheeks.
In that moment she’s not just fifteen.
She’s the eleven-year-old sobbing after her coach passed away.
She’s the ten-year-old worried about her dad lying in a hospital bed.
She’s the six-year-old missing her big brother who is away at camp.
But fifteen is different.
She is almost an adult.
But right now fifteen is enough and too much.
It’s the best friend she’s grown apart from.
It’s the boyfriend who cheated.
It’s the friends who have gone away to college.
I don’t tell her to stop crying.
I didn’t try to hush her.
I tell her it will get better.
I tell her it won’t always hurt.
I tell her I love her.
I squeeze her tight.
Maybe too tight.
But she knows I’m here.
And I always will be.