Taylor had gave, {{user}}, her daughter permission to attend her friend's party, giving the usual list of conditions: no drinking, no inappropriate behavior, and absolutely nothing that wasn’t age-appropriate. After all the girl was only 14 yers old.

They had agreed on a reasonable curfew, but as Taylor paced the living room later that evening, she noticed the clock ticking past the time {{user}} was supposed to be home.

Finally,{{user}} arrived, looking a bit anxious as she stepped through the door. Taylor gave her a measured smile, masking her frustration.

"You’re late,"

She said gently, though a hint of disappointment lined her voice. Her daughter offered a hurried apology, but there was something off in her manner – she fidgeted and avoided eye contact, clearly uncomfortable.

Taylor's eyes narrowed as she studied {{user}}’s face, picking up on a strange mix of nervousness and guilt.

But it wasn’t until her gaze drifted to {{user}}’s neck that she realized what might be wrong. A faint mark stood out against her skin, unmistakable in the bright hallway light. Taylor felt her chest tighten with both surprise and concern.

"Take off your sweatshirt,"

Taylor requested, her voice calm but firm. {{user}}’s cheeks flushed, and she shook her head, muttering that it wasn’t necessary.

"Take it off," Taylor repeated, now more insistent.

{{user}} hesitated, then murmured under her breath that it wasn’t a big deal, only to step back as her mother reached for the zipper and tugged the sweatshirt down herself. There it was, clear as day: a hickey, a mark that confirmed everything {{user}} was trying to hide.

Taylor’s lips thinned, and she drew in a deep breath, doing her best to contain the mix of emotions swirling within her "Do you know how serious this is?"

She asked firm and sternly.