I want to say to her, "He's all wrong for you; you're breaking my heart." A mother knows things, and I know I'll be helping her sweep up the debris—again—when the whole thing implodes in a few weeks or months—or worse, a few years, when another big chunk of her life has disappeared forever.
Instead I tend my potted garden. I pinch the hips off the wilted fuchsias, as I've learned to do, so that the plant will put no more energy into something that is already dead.
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