Ryan has always spoken calmly about losing his first love. Maybe he’s truly moved on. Maybe he’s grown. I’m glad he has.

But as his mother, I still remember those days vividly and painfully. Even now, a part of me winces when I think back. Still, I want to share this story. Because if it helps even one ABC parent or child face love with more compassion, it’s worth it.

It was just past 8 p.m. when I got the call. It was Ryan’s college dean.

“Ryan is safe,” she said. “He’s doing okay. But it would be good if you could come visit him as soon as you're able.”

That was all. No diagnosis. No details. Just that he was safe and that I should come.

I didn’t panic. I booked the earliest flight for the next morning. The ticket was five times the usual price. But I wasn’t thinking about money, logistics, or even sleep. Just Ryan.

At 9 p.m., my phone rang again. Another call from the school.

“Ryan would like to speak with you.”

“Hi Mom,” he said gently. “I’m okay. I heard you’re coming tomorrow. That makes me happy. But don’t rush. Please be safe.”

I was more confused than ever. What had happened?

The next morning, I arrived at the address they gave me. It was on campus but heavily secured. I stood outside the building for almost an hour before the front gate finally opened. Inside, I climbed to the fourth floor, where another locked gate waited. A staff member checked my ID before letting me through.

In the common area, I saw students in matching clothes. Some were smiling. Some were staring. Some were quiet. Some were loud. Their expressions were distant, unsettled.

But Ryan wasn’t there. For a moment, my heart nearly gave out.

A nurse led me to his room. Two beds. Ryan was helping his roommate drink water and eat breakfast. When he saw me, he smiled and gave me a hug.

“Mom, I’m so happy you came so quickly. Let me get you some water - you must be thirsty.”

We walked to the common room and sat down. He was calm. So calm, I didn’t ask him anything.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” I said. “I’ve missed you. That’s why I came so fast.”

“You doing okay?”

“I’m alright,” he said softly. “I just need to stay here for two days. Then I can go back to my dorm and resume classes.”

I nodded. “Perfect. Then I’ll wait here a few days too. When you’re ready, we’ll go back to your dorm together. I’m sure it’s a mess - I’ll help you clean it.”

And that was our conversation.

Light. Quiet. Simple.

We didn’t mention why he was there. We just talked.

At lunchtime, visiting hours ended. I stood at the door to say goodbye. Ryan looked at me, nodded gently, then turned and walked back to his room without a word.

He didn’t want me to see him cry.

I walked down the stairs alone. And for the first time, I cried.

I knew, even without words,why he had been brought there.

It was because grief had overwhelmed him.

And no one, not even he, could stop it.

For the next two days, I visited each morning.

We talked about little things. Childhood memories. Funny stories.

On the third morning, I arrived to take him home.

We walked hand in hand through the quiet campus.

“Don’t be afraid,” I told him. “And don’t stay too sad.

Because no matter what… Mom is always right here.”

Today, I want to say something to all our ABC children:

When love becomes the past,

let it go with the wind

and let tomorrow arrive

gently, bravely, and whole.

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