I’ve always prided myself on trust. No snooping, no hovering—just faith that my 14-year-old daughter knows her boundaries. Her boyfriend, also 14, is polite: shoes off, “hello,” “thank you.” Every Sunday they vanish behind her closed door for hours.

That afternoon, laughter faded to whispers. My mind spiraled: *What if they’re…?* I told myself to relax, but curiosity won. I tiptoed down the hall and cracked the door.

Soft music. Cross-legged on the rug. Notebooks, highlighters, algebra. She was teaching him, brow furrowed in concentration. Cookies untouched on the desk.

She glanced up, smiling. “Mom? Need something?”

“More cookies?” I mumbled.

“We’re good!” Back to equations.

I shut the door, slid down the wall—embarrassed, relieved, humbled.

No scandal. Just two kids, heads bent over math, building something better than secrets.

Sometimes the worst we imagine is just the best we forgot to see.