The boy falls in love. Tumbling blinded into desire and pulsing need. His world obliterated by one gorgeous group of atoms molded into female form.

I watch. Powerful and powerless. A jealous enabler; part taxi driver, part cook, spare part. It is too soon for him to understand the love jumble of emotions: at fourteen he is still a child and she is older by 15 months or perhaps years. He has no chance of breath or choice while faced by such advanced feminine wiles. He cannot and does not listen to me. Why should he? What can I possibly know of young love in my “ancient” form? I persist, trying to keep connection, trying to be neutral, dropping suggestions and hints of how to spend time, where to spend time, gifts and ideas shrouded in wisdom and guidance.

I helplessly watch him make poor decisions on where to spend his time, grateful that the love of the game means he still goes to practice and still performs on the pitch. The difference is she now joins me to watch him play, even though she doesn’t like the sport. I think he likes having her there although the other players both tease him and revere him for this female slavish devotion.

We are bonded in our love of the bones of him and I gradually let her in as time shows this is not a fleeting first love but a deep felt connection fulfilling some primal calling.

She’s bright, well read and attractive. Her parents go from acquaintances to friends and we bond over concerns of the nature of their relationship, shared taxi duties and mutual values. This is hugely helped by their Scottish/Danish sensibilities, this similar cultural references making even the most delicate of conversations somewhat easier. The hardest of these being the “are they really ready” and the discussion and debate between blocks and facilitation. Of course the kids are steps ahead and I have the painful pleasure of listening to my boy explain his feelings and ask for my support. I sit on the sand, letting it run through my fingers as he confidently puts forward his thoughts and opinions; how can this be my child, my boy? But then again, how can this not be my son? We walk back along Bathesheba beach and the world has changed, the juggernaut of progress has found a different gear. He runs ahead to play with Monty dog and I realize the gold of the moment is not in the sand or the glistening Caribbean Sea, it’s not in the delight of watching boy v dog races and the joyful hoots of his laughter; rather it’s in the acknowledgment that this is the beginning of letting go. The start of my journey to learn to let my child grow into a man. It’s not easy.

Almost a year later I stand in the kitchen and say to her “You must finish this. You deserve better and are worth more than how he’s treating you now. Let him go. He does not have the courage to tell you it’s over for him. Instead he’s treating you badly and it’s breaking my heart as this is not how I have brought him up. No woman should be treated with such cavalier distain – never let this happen to you again. Have the courage to break your heart, you cannot change him, change yourself” She nods tearfully and goes downstairs to almost verbatim repeat what I have said back to him, I guess in the hope to make him change.

I stand battered by his hormonal rage when she leaves. He’s confused. My sisterly solidarity has trumped my Mothers love. He doesn’t understand my betrayal and is determined to prove me wrong. This lasts less than a week and she is cast off again. I rage silently wishing her courage.

Four weeks later, he tells me she’s done with him having sat him down during break-time to let him know her decision. I ask for his response and he shares that he sits with her , letting her talk, feeling responsible for her pain,  yet relief that she’s ended it. I give my female perspective and watch as his eyes cloud over.

There is much learning still to be had.

She will always be his first love, always be special.
He doesn’t realize this yet.

One day…