I nudged the door open just a sliver.
The laughter had faded. The room was quiet now—too quiet.
My heart pounded as I peeked inside, bracing myself for what I might see.
And then… I stopped.
Not in anger.
Not in fear.
But in shock—not at what my daughter was doing…
but at who she was helping.
There, on her bed, sat her boyfriend—not leaning over her, not touching her inappropriately—but hunched forward, eyes closed, face streaked with tears.
And my daughter—my sweet, soft-spoken fourteen-year-old—was gently holding his hand, speaking in a calm, steady voice.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
He wasn’t hiding.
She wasn’t distracted.
They were sitting in silence, side by side, after he told her something no teenager should ever have to say out loud:
“I think about ending it sometimes.”
💔 What I Almost Misunderstood:
