Friday nights meant old movies on the couch, Lily resting her head on my shoulder.
Sometimes she would sit with me at the kitchen table late at night when she couldn’t sleep, talking about school, friends, and dreams.
For years, it felt like love alone was enough to raise a child.
But as Lily grew older, I grew stricter.
I believed I was protecting her. The world wasn’t gentle with young girls who trusted too easily. I wanted her to focus on school and build a future that couldn’t be destroyed by one reckless choice.
Looking back, I realize I might have held on too tightly.
But we loved each other deeply.
The Night She Left
The last time I saw Lily, rain tapped softly against the kitchen window.
We stood on opposite sides of the table.
She had come home late. I noticed the smudged mascara beneath her eyes.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Out,” she said. “With friends.”
“Out where and which friends?”
She exhaled slowly. “Why does every answer turn into an interrogation?”
“Because you live in my house and I deserve to know where you are.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m 18, not eight.”
“And teenagers make bad decisions daily.”
Her face hardened. “So that’s what you think of me?”
“Where were you?”
