I (40F) have always strived to be a supportive and understanding mother to my daughter, Ava (15F). I made it a point to ask about her day, offer help when she seemed troubled, and generally create a safe and open environment for her to confide in me. That’s why it hit me like a ton of bricks when Ava started exhibiting increasingly erratic and concerning behavior. It started with the **constant running away** from home at night. Then came the shouting matches, the slamming doors, and the **heartbreaking words**: “I hate you!” I simply couldn’t understand what had happened to my sweet, loving child. It was as if she had transformed into a completely different person overnight. I tried talking to her, reasoning with her, pleading with her, but Ava remained stubbornly shut off. She refused to open up, offer explanations, or even acknowledge my presence. Desperate and filled with self-blame, I wished more than anything that I could somehow fix the situation. I racked my brain, replaying every conversation, every interaction, searching for clues or missteps that might have triggered this sudden and drastic change in her behavior. I blamed myself for not being a better mother, for failing to notice the signs, for somehow pushing her away.
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Consumed by worry and a desperate need for answers, I made a decision that I now deeply regret. While Ava was at school, I **violated her privacy** in the most egregious way imaginable. I went into her room, rummaging through her belongings in a frantic search for anything that might shed light on her troubling behavior. I stumbled upon what I now know to be her diary, a small, unassuming notebook tucked away beneath a pile of clothes.
I knew I shouldn’t read it. I knew it was a violation of her trust and a betrayal of the bond we once shared. But the fear and desperation had completely consumed me. I told myself that I only needed to read the first page, just to get a sense of what was going on. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. I devoured every word, every sentence, every painful confession.
As I turned the pages, a horrifying picture began to emerge. My daughter was in **grave danger**, poised to make a decision that would irrevocably alter the course of her life. She had stolen the money I had painstakingly saved for her college education, and she was planning to run away with someone. Someone I knew. Someone I trusted. Someone who was supposed to protect her.
That someone was my husband. My daughter had fallen for my husband. The diary detailed a clandestine relationship. The plan was to run away that night. I was blindsided. Devastated. What happened next changed everything.
