It’s something I used to do when she was upset as a toddler. I sit on the edge of the bed and take her hands into mine. She tosses her cell phone on the pink comforter and swipes away her tears with her palms. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” I coo as I approach her bed. The crocodile tears spilling down her bright red cheeks could rival her grandmother’s any day. I’ve never seen her look so sad in all my life. The apple of my eye, just like her mother. When I reach her door, I twist the knob and enter.Īh, sweet Emily. And that instance was more because her feelings were hurt that her horse would eject her, rather than her bruised tailbone. In fact, the only time I’ve seen her shed tears is when her horse Buckingham threw her off when she was thirteen. I STEP THROUGH THE FRONT door and tense, immediately alarmed, when a loud sob rings out through a closed door down the hallway. “I have not broken your heart-you have broken it and in breaking it, you have broken mine.” To Emily Brontë, for rebelling against your time and giving us a romance like no other.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Heath by K. Webster