She lay curled up on her bed in the fetal position after her bath, her wet hair twirled in a towel atop her sweet little eleven year old head. She’d been her usual bubbly self over dinner. She couldn’t tell me why she was sad. She just said “I don’t even know” as the stream of tears followed the curve of her nose, rushing to the billowing sea of pillow. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to make things right in her world. But sometimes that’s not possible because we are fragile and everything doesn’t make sense. Sometimes the sorrow has an origin we’re not yet ready to explore the depths of. Sometimes fixing is not what one needs. Sometimes a sad heart just needs to hear “Me too.” Sometimes you just need holding through the ache. So I brought her to my room and I snuggled her up in my big comforter, kissed her face and said “Me to baby. Me too” and we cried together.