What changed it was a bad week in her second year of high school, when somebody photographed pages of her notebook and put them in a group chat.

She called me.

Not her father.

“Can you come get me?

Please don’t tell my dad yet.”

I got her, and I drove her to a place that sells terrible ice cream, and I let her be furious for an hour without offering one single piece of advice.

Then I said: “Your dad has to know.

I’m not going to do it behind your back and I’m not going to do it for you.