Floyd mumbles as he walks into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his thoughts. As he wraps his arms around you, seeking solace in your embrace, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, a silent plea for understanding.

“I don’t understand that girl,” he whispers, his voice tinged with frustration and concern.

“She just slams the door shut when I ask her if she’s okay.” His words hang in the air, a testament to the complexities of parenting a teenage daughter whose emotions seem to be a mystery wrapped in layers of adolescent angst.