First Heartbreak
Rachel Weinhaus
The first time my mom’s heart broke, she was 7 and her dad left for the other woman I call Joanne, though she insists I call her Nana. I know Mom likes it when I call her Joanne. Mom scolds me in front of Grandpa but slips me a cookie in the car.
The second time was when her high school boyfriend died in a car crash. The third was when her college professor told her she was special and then told her she wasn’t. Then came my father.
Her latest heartbreak—the businessman who took us out for sushi every Sunday—moved overseas and didn’t call to say goodbye.
She stayed in bed for a week. “Your heart is so pure,” she said as I twirled a lock of her hair. “What I would give to start again, fresh.” So I held her close and willed my heart to leap, offering itself in trade. And just like that, her heart sank, heavy in my chest.
When she left for a weekend with Hank from the internet, she floated out the door, a schoolgirl on her way to a dance.
I was 14 and in love with the college boy who mowed our lawn. He had one blue eye, one green, and when the sun hit just right, he looked like the sea calling.
Four days later, when my mother still hadn’t returned, it rained. I waited for the college boy. I knew he wasn’t coming.
And all the blue-green seas in all the world rolled away from me.
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