At 9:15 p.m. on a Monday in February 1990, I had my tender heart trampled on by a cowardly 16 year-old boy named Martin. Up until 9:14 I had been in LOVE. We had gone to two formal dances – I had kept the corsages, we had danced slowly in the dark, and kissed behind a high school gym after a football game. Martin had been my boyfriend for nearly five months and in less than a minute he ended our affair, over the phone. I sobbed hysterically. I had never felt so completely caught off guard and betrayed in all my 15 years. I was sick. My mom held me, got me in the car and drove. She headed for Santa Cruz, through the mountains and up highway 1 along the coast in the black of night as I cried and clutched the tiny gold bracelet I knew I could never wear again. She didn’t even hesitate in her solution to get me out of the house. She would be waking the next morning at 5 a.m. for her shift as the breakfast waitress at a local diner. She had to have been exhausted but she kept me talking for hours. Only now that I have my own baby daughter and 15 year-old step daughter can I begin to understand what must have been a desperate instinct to heal my heart in some way. She sacrificed precious sleep so that I could scream and cry in someplace other than our tiny cabin in the woods. I can still remember the way my room looked as I hung up the phone in shock, broken. It hurts a little to think back to that girl, but I cannot ever remember feeling more comforted, safe and loved by my mother that night.