I’ve always considered myself a trusting parent. I rarely snoop or hover, and I like to believe my daughter knows that.

Still, trust sometimes gets challenged—like that Sunday afternoon when I heard laughter and hushed voices coming from behind her closed bedroom door.

My daughter is fourteen, and her boyfriend—also fourteen—is polite, gentle, and, for a teenager, surprisingly respectful.

He greets us every time he arrives, slips off his shoes at the door, and thanks me when he heads home.

Every Sunday, he visits, and the two of them spend hours in her room. I remind myself they’re just hanging out, but when the giggles get quieter and the door stays firmly shut, my imagination starts to wander.

That day, I tried to stay relaxed and give her the privacy I always promise her.