And, okay, moms aren’t ever supposed to—under no circumstances—enter their teenagers’ sacred bedrooms without the occupant’s express permission, a warrant, or at least probable cause. But Tegan is a sweet kid, and she’s probably just listening to music too loud to hear me. So, I do the unthinkable and turn the knob.

True to expectations, my daughter is on her bed, laptop on her legs, giant headphones covering her ears while she bounces her head up and down in rhythm to a tune. Our cat, Priscilla, is nestled between the pillows of Tegan’s queen bed where she knows she shouldn’t sleep. The covers are fair game, but the pillow area is forbidden, which, in our cat’s mind, must be exactly the appeal.

I sit at the foot of the bed, causing Tegan’s head to snap up and her eyes to go wide as she shuts the laptop at the speed of light.

What was she doing?

Unfortunately, I know the rules and am not allowed to ask. I sigh inwardly, missing the days when she was little and her biggest life’s goal was to spend as much time in my arms as she could. But, alas, those times are gone. Let’s focus on the present.

“Hi, honey.”

She removes the headphones, nestling them around her neck. “Hey, Mom.”

As expected, her tone isn’t angry. Tegan doesn’t begrudge me the intrusion. And other than shutting her laptop, she welcomes me with a warm smile.

“Did you have dinner already?” I ask.

“Yeah, I ordered pizza. I left you some.”

I want to say eating fast-food every night isn’t a smart choice, but what right do I have when I wasn’t home to make her a healthier meal? The usual inner battle between providing the best financial support for my kid—ensuring Tegan has a solid college fund and can choose whatever school she wants—and the need to be more present in her life rages in my chest. Unfortunately, becoming a parent didn’t happen with an instruction manual on what to prioritize.

At least Tegan had a half-day today, and we had a healthy lunch at the salad bar near my new office. If nothing else, she ate some of her vegetables. And for tomorrow night, I’ll make the dinner order myself—sushi, or a noodle soup.

And to be honest, I could use leftover pizza right now.

I ask my next standard-issue, end-of-day question. “How was the rest of your day?” And prepare myself for the equally standard non-answer.

It promptly arrives. “Great.”

“Did you do anything fun?” I prod.

Tegan shrugs. “Just homework and practice.”

She plays varsity volleyball.