Her parent needed to know.
But I could also see that she wasn’t being careless because she was bad.
She was being careless because she was fourteen.
Because every app in her hand had taught her that attention felt like friendship.
Because privacy had become a punishment to her generation.
Because adults gave kids the tools of the world and then acted shocked when they didn’t know how sharp they were.
“Kinsley,” I said, “I am not trying to get you in trouble.”
She wiped her cheek with her sleeve.
“But this is bigger than a phone rule.”
“I deleted it.”
“I know.”
“I made my account private.”
“I’m glad.”
“I blocked people I didn’t know.”
“That’s good too.”
Her voice cracked.
“Please don’t tell my dad.”
I looked at her.
I saw a scared little girl trying to look like a teenager.
I saw myself at fourteen, hiding mistakes because the punishment felt bigger than the lesson.
