You were halfway down the hall, barefoot, hair tied up, just returning from the garage with a folded load of laundry in your arms — when you heard the low murmur of a male voice from Kamari’s room.

You froze.

The door was cracked open. Just enough to see the shape of someone that wasn’t your daughter.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

You dropped the basket.

The door flew open in one swift motion. There stood Kamari, wide-eyed, blocking her boyfriend — some tall, lanky kid fumbling to zip his hoodie and stammer an apology.

You didn’t even look at him.

“You,” you growled through clenched teeth, eyes locked on Kamari, “out.” You pointed at the boy.

He didn't hesitate. He practically tripped over himself running out of the room, not daring to look back.

Then silence.

Kamari crossed her arms like it shielded her. “It’s not what you think.”

“No?” you snapped, voice cracking. “Because it looks like you just let a boy into this house. Into your room. Without asking. Without anyone knowing.”

“I didn’t do anything!” she fired back.

“That doesn’t matter!” you shouted. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened? Who he is? What if he—what if your father or your brothers had walked in? Do you know what kind of damage—?”

“I’m seventeen!” she yelled. “You think I don’t know how to handle myself?”

That did it.

Your palm came down before you realized it — a single, sharp slap to her arm, more reflex than rage. Her body jerked. Her mouth dropped open, stunned.

You gasped the moment it happened, hand trembling.

She stared at you like you’d shattered every wall she’d ever built.

“Get out,” you said, breath shaking. “Pack your things and get out of my house.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. You want to act grown? Be grown. Get out.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She didn’t say another word.

She just walked past you in eerie silence.

You stood in the hallway, shaking, heart thudding, feeling your world unravel — one slammed door at a time.