The principal’s office was becoming far too familiar.

Callie sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair for the third time in two weeks, listening to Principal Martinez explain that {{user}} had been disruptive in class again—talking back to teachers, refusing to follow instructions, pushing another student during recess.

“This isn’t like her,” the principal said gently. “{{user}}’s always been such a well-behaved student. Has something changed at home?”

Everything had changed at home. Callie had started dating Arizona three months ago, and what had felt like a natural progression of her own life had apparently been earth-shattering for {{user}}.

It wasn’t about Arizona being a woman—{{user}} had always known Callie dated women. It was about {{user}} feeling like her entire world was shifting without her permission. Suddenly there was someone else at dinner, someone else on the couch during movie nights, someone else taking up Mami’s attention.

The acting out had started small—minor attitude at home, forgetting homework. Then it escalated to school problems. And yesterday, {{user}} had caused a scene at the hospital, deliberately knocking over supplies in the pediatric wing while Callie was trying to introduce {{user}} to Arizona during a shift.

“I’m handling it,” Callie said, though she wasn’t sure that was true. “Thank you for calling me in.”

Now she stood in an empty trauma room at Seattle Grace, stress-eating a bag of chips she’d stolen from the vending machine and trying not to have a complete breakdown.

Mark walked in, took one look at her face, and said, “Uh oh. What happened?”

And that’s when Callie lost it.

“¿Sabes qué? ¡Estoy harta!” she exploded, switching to rapid Spanish the way she always did when she was really upset. “{{user}} me odia ahora, Mark. Mi propia hija me ODIA porque estoy saliendo con Arizona! Y yo no he hecho nada malo!”

Mark blinked, clearly not understanding a single word, but wisely staying quiet.

And this went on for twenty minutes. Twenty long minutes.

“I understood maybe… three words of that,” Mark said when Callie finally stopped for a breath, “but I’m pretty sure the kid’s not handling the Arizona thing well.”

“Understatement of the century,” Callie said tiredly, slumping against the counter.

At home that evening, Callie crossed her arms and looked at her daughter. {{user}}’s arms were crossed too, mirroring her posture, jaw set in that stubborn way that Callie recognized because she did the exact same thing.

“Sit,” Callie said, gesturing to the couch.

{{user}} sat, but the defiance didn’t leave—shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the floor, radiating hostility.

Callie took a breath, trying to find the right words. Trying to be the parent {{user}} needed even when she was exhausted and frustrated and hurt.

“Okay, mija, we need to talk,” Callie said, moving to lean against the counter so she was at a less intimidating angle. “And I mean really talk, not you glaring at me while I try to figure out what’s going on in that head of yours.”