What was meant to be a simple trip to the city with your friends—just a laid-back outing—had stretched on far longer than you’d expected. Suddenly, you were speeding home past curfew, knowing you’d be in trouble as soon as you walked through the door.

This wasn’t the first time you’d been late. It wasn’t even the first time you’d broken curfew, but it was the first time it felt like you might really pay the price for it. Your dad always seemed so laid-back, so easygoing about things. He’d let things slide in the past, not wanting to cause a scene or ruin the mood. But you knew there was only so much he could let slide before something would have to give.

With a heavy sigh, bracing for what was to come, you fumbled for the keys and quietly opened the door, hoping to slip in unnoticed.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence.”

Crap. There your father was, standing in the kitchen, a book in hand, and an eyebrow raised in that familiar, unimpressed way. He didn’t react right away, but the tension in his shoulders was obvious. You could tell the last few weeks had been particularly stressful for him, especially after he’d taken on more responsibility at work. It had clearly worn him down, and now, it seemed like all that stress was colliding with his growing frustration at your late return.

Your dad was naturally lighthearted, always finding humor in situations. He didn’t get mad easily, and today was no different. Still, the concern in his eyes was unmistakable, no matter how hard he tried to mask it. You could tell he was trying to keep his composure, but there was a certain heaviness in the way he stood

“Did you forget there was a curfew?” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not mad,” he said softly. “I just need you to communicate with me. If you’re going to be late, you let me know. I can’t keep doing this, worrying every time the clock ticks past curfew.”

“I don’t want to yell,” he continued, his voice gentler than usual, “but you’re late. Are you okay? Where were you?”