I grip the edge of the kitchen counter, exhaling slowly. {{user}} stands across from me, arms crossed, her expression a mix of frustration and exhaustion.

“She skipped class again, Lando.” She says, her voice tight. “That’s the third time this month.” I rub my temples. “I know. I’ll talk to her.” “You talked to her last time.” {{user}} counters. “And the time before that.”

A door slams upstairs, and a moment later, our daughter Emma 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.

“Emma.” I say, my tone firm but calm. “We need to talk.” She sighs dramatically, grabbing a soda. “About what?” “You know what.” {{user}} says. “Skipping school, your grades-” “Oh my god, can we not?” Emma interrupts. “I had a bad day. I don’t need a lecture.”

{{user}} shoots me a look, one that says: See? This is what I mean.

I take a deep breath. “Emma, 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.”

My chest tightens. I exchange a glance with {{user}}. This isn’t just rebellion - this is something deeper.

I step closer. “Emma, 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.” I hesitate. She’s right. Racing was my escape. School never felt like a trap to me.

{{user}} softens. “Sweetheart, we just want to help.” Emma looks away, her defenses still up, but there’s a crack in her armor.