I’ve always considered myself a trusting parent. I rarely snoop, I respect my daughter’s space, and I like to believe she knows that.
Still, trust has its limits—like that Sunday afternoon when laughter and whispered voices drifted from behind her closed bedroom door.
My daughter is fourteen, and her boyfriend—also fourteen—is polite, gentle, and, for a teenager, remarkably respectful. He greets us every time he visits, slips off his shoes at the door, and thanks me when he leaves.
Every Sunday, they retreat to her room for hours. I remind myself they’re just hanging out, but when the giggles grow softer and the door stays firmly shut, my imagination begins to wander.
That day, I tried to stay relaxed, reminding myself of the trust we’ve built.
But a tiny voice in my head whispered: What if? What if something’s happening I should know about? What if I’m too trusting?
Before I realized it, I was inching down the hallway.
When I reached her door, I nudged it open just a crack.
Soft music floated through the slit, and my breath caught.
There they were—cross-legged on the rug, notebooks and highlighters scattered around them. My daughter’s brow furrowed in concentration, pointing to a particularly tricky math problem.
Her boyfriend nodded intently, listening, clearly trying to follow her explanation. A small plate of cookies sat at the desk, untouched.
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