When my 14-year-old daughter, Lily, started dating, I told myself I was handling it well. I was the cool, understanding mom — calm, trusting, composed. Or so I thought. One ordinary Sunday shattered that illusion and taught me more about parenting, fear, and trust than any book ever could.
Lily had been seeing a boy from school named Daniel — a polite, respectful kid who made her laugh and brought her favorite candy whenever he came over. Every Sunday, they’d hang out in her room, door mostly closed, “studying.” I’d tell myself not to worry. She was responsible. I trusted her.
Until that one Sunday.
I was folding laundry in the hallway when I noticed her door shut and the light dimmed. They’d been in there for hours. My imagination, ever dramatic, whispered: What if they’re not just studying?
My pulse quickened. Logic vanished, replaced by every parent’s worst-case scenario. Before I could stop myself, I turned the doorknob and walked right in.
