It felt like something inside her had cracked wide open.
Yael sat on the sun-warmed stone steps of her porch, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at the dry fields beyond. The emptiness inside her felt bigger than the land stretching away in every direction. Two months ago, Naveh had walked away — no explanation, just the soft thud of a door closing. After four years of loving him, believing in him, planning a life wrapped in dreams and whispered prayers, he was simply... gone.
A dry wind stirred her hair across her cheeks. She didn’t even brush it away. What was the point of building anything if it could all fall apart so easily? Trusting someone hadn't kept her safe. Loving had only left her bleeding.
The door creaked behind her. She half-expected it to be him, ridiculous hope blooming and dying all at once. But it was only her neighbor Rivka’s little boy, Avi, clutching something in his small fists. Wordlessly, he thrust it toward her: a lopsided clay heart, smeared in shades of pink and crooked blue letters trying to spell "Ahava" — Love.
Her fingers trembled when she took it.
"I made it for you," Avi said solemnly. "Because you looked sad at shul."
A breath caught somewhere in Yael's chest. She managed a whisper, "Thank you, motek."
He grinned, dazzling and gap-toothed, before racing off down the path.
Yael closed her hand around the crude, warm little heart, feeling its rough edges scrape against her skin — imperfect, but whole. And somehow, a crack of sunlight pierced the darkness inside her.
All this time, she had thought she was alone in her pain. But love hadn't dried up with Naveh’s leaving. It flowed on — a stubborn river carving through rocky earth. Love was in the small acts, the broken gifts, the grace of a child noticing her hurt when she herself had tried to hide it.
A verse whispered through her mind, old and beloved, from the nights her mother used to lean over her bed and recite: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
Love wasn't safe. It wasn’t something you measured out cautiously, guarding it against loss. True love — the kind the Torah urged — was brave. It loved even when there was every reason to lock your heart away. It forgave. It gave forward.
Hands trembling, Yael pressed the cracked clay heart to her own.
She thought of her ancestors wandering through desert after desert, stubbornly choosing trust, building again after exile and heartbreak and endless waiting. She thought of G-d, ever faithful even when His people turned away, whose presence always whispered back, I am here.
Slowly, Yael rose. Her heart still bore cracks, but perhaps light could get through them now. Avi’s heart would find a home on her windowsill, a reminder that even broken love could be beautiful. Maybe, in time, so could hers.
And someday — not today, maybe not tomorrow — she would choose to love again. Not because it was safe. Because it was holy.
---
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
It felt like something inside her had cracked wide open.
Yael sat on the sun-warmed stone steps of her porch, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at the dry fields beyond. The emptiness inside her felt bigger than the land stretching away in every direction. Two months ago, Naveh had walked away — no explanation, just the soft thud of a door closing. After four years of loving him, believing in him, planning a life wrapped in dreams and whispered prayers, he was simply... gone.
A dry wind stirred her hair across her cheeks. She didn’t even brush it away. What was the point of building anything if it could all fall apart so easily? Trusting someone hadn't kept her safe. Loving had only left her bleeding.
The door creaked behind her. She half-expected it to be him, ridiculous hope blooming and dying all at once. But it was only her neighbor Rivka’s little boy, Avi, clutching something in his small fists. Wordlessly, he thrust it toward her: a lopsided clay heart, smeared in shades of pink and crooked blue letters trying to spell "Ahava" — Love.
Her fingers trembled when she took it.
"I made it for you," Avi said solemnly. "Because you looked sad at shul."
A breath caught somewhere in Yael's chest. She managed a whisper, "Thank you, motek."
He grinned, dazzling and gap-toothed, before racing off down the path.
Yael closed her hand around the crude, warm little heart, feeling its rough edges scrape against her skin — imperfect, but whole. And somehow, a crack of sunlight pierced the darkness inside her.
All this time, she had thought she was alone in her pain. But love hadn't dried up with Naveh’s leaving. It flowed on — a stubborn river carving through rocky earth. Love was in the small acts, the broken gifts, the grace of a child noticing her hurt when she herself had tried to hide it.
A verse whispered through her mind, old and beloved, from the nights her mother used to lean over her bed and recite: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
Love wasn't safe. It wasn’t something you measured out cautiously, guarding it against loss. True love — the kind the Torah urged — was brave. It loved even when there was every reason to lock your heart away. It forgave. It gave forward.
Hands trembling, Yael pressed the cracked clay heart to her own.
She thought of her ancestors wandering through desert after desert, stubbornly choosing trust, building again after exile and heartbreak and endless waiting. She thought of G-d, ever faithful even when His people turned away, whose presence always whispered back, I am here.
Slowly, Yael rose. Her heart still bore cracks, but perhaps light could get through them now. Avi’s heart would find a home on her windowsill, a reminder that even broken love could be beautiful. Maybe, in time, so could hers.
And someday — not today, maybe not tomorrow — she would choose to love again. Not because it was safe. Because it was holy.
---
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
