That afternoon, I tried to ignore the questions bubbling up in my mind. I told myself that barging in would betray everything I claim to stand for as a parent. Yet the doubts persisted, growing louder with every passing minute. Eventually, without consciously deciding to, I found myself walking down the hallway. Each step felt heavy, driven more by anxiety than intention.
When I reached her door, I opened it just enough to see inside. Soft music played quietly, and the scene before me stopped me cold. They were sitting on the rug, legs crossed, surrounded by notebooks, loose papers, and brightly colored pens. My daughter was explaining a math problem, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her boyfriend listened closely, nodding and asking questions. A plate of cookies sat untouched on the desk. She looked up, surprised but calm, and asked if I needed something. I closed the door moments later, leaning against the wall, embarrassed and relieved, reminded that fear often invents problems where there are none.
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