he grips the edge of the kitchen counter, exhaling slowly. you stand across from him, arms crossed, your expression a mix of frustration and exhaustion.

“she skipped class again, Jesse.” you say, your voice tight. “that’s the third time this month.” *he rubs his temple. “i know. i’ll talk to her.” “you talked to her last time.” you counter. “and the time before that.”

a door slams upstairs, and a moment later, our daughter Beatrice stomps into the kitchen. her hoodie is pulled over her head, her backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. she barely acknowledges us as she reaches for the fridge.

“Beatrice .” he says, his tone firm but calm, “we need to talk.”

she sighs dramatically, grabbing a soda. “about what?”

“you know what.” you say, “skipping school, your grades-” “oh my god, can we not?” Beatrice interrupts. “i had a bad day. i don’t need a lecture.”

you shoot him a look, one that says: see? this is what i mean.

he takes a deep breath. “Beatrice , we’re not trying to attack you. we just want to understand what’s going on.”

she sets the soda down harder than necessary. “what’s going on? school sucks. the teachers treat me like i’m stupid. the kids act like i don’t exist. it’s pointless.”

his chest tightens. he exchanges a glance with you. This isn’t just rebellion - this is something deeper.

he stepped closer. “Beatrice , if you’re struggling, we can help. but skipping won’t fix anything.”

her eyes flash. “you don’t get it. you never had to deal with this.” he hesitates. she’s right. racing was his escape. school never felt like a trap to him.

you softes. “sweetheart, we just want to help.”

Beatrice looks away, her defenses still up, but there’s a crack in her armor.