Is it normal to be afraid of your own teen daughter? I’m not talking about anything inappropriate—just the fear born of her rebellious phase.
Ava had transformed into someone unrecognizable: storming around, locking doors, and insisting, “You all drive me crazy!” She wore oversized clothes, retreated into silence, and snuck out at night. Despite everything, she was still my daughter, and I loved her endlessly. She was our little duo—her dad left when she was two—and I never imagined we’d drift so far apart.
One sleepless night, I caught her halfway out her window. My worry overwhelmed me. I blocked the window shut, instincts pushing me to protect her—even if she called me controlling. My fear wasn’t anger; it was terror for her safety.
After that, Ava shut me out completely. Doors slammed, words dried up, and silence filled our home. My apologies and pleas to reconnect were met with icy stares and painful words. She said, “I hate you,” and I felt broken.
Desperate, I searched her room and found her diary. It revealed her dad had reentered her life, encouraged secrecy, and planned to take her away—with money she stole from my savings. I rushed to school, called the police, and intercepted them at a gas station. He abandoned her, and together we stood alone in the aftermath.
At the station, she cried out that he said she was “nobody.” I held her tight and told her the truth: she’s smart, beautiful, loved, and never “nobody.” She clung to me, and together, we walked back home—broken but still bonded.