My 17-year-old daughter has been coming home after midnight for the past month. And last night, I froze when I saw she was being walked home by a man my age …

My 17-year-old daughter has started coming home very late over the past month—after midnight, sometimes closer to two. She said it was because she was at a friend’s house, preparing for exams, projects, and group work. I believed her. She had always been responsible, did well in school, and never gave me reason to worry.

I raised her alone from the age of three when her father left us for another woman and never returned to our lives. I worked two jobs, denied myself everything just to make sure my daughter had everything she needed. We were a team—her and me against the world. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I went out on the balcony to get some fresh air. And I saw a fancy car driving up to our building. My daughter got out. And right after—a tall, greying man, clearly over forty.

He hugged her around the shoulders and kissed her forehead. She leaned against him, looking at him as if he were the center of the universe. Then she looked up at our balcony—and saw me. Her smile vanished in an instant. Her face twisted with fear. She quickly pulled away from him and rushed into the building.

When my daughter got into the apartment, I was already waiting for her in the kitchen. She tried to walk past me, but I stopped her: “Sit down. We need to talk.”

She sat down, but she didn’t lower her eyes. On the contrary—she looked defiant, as if preparing for a fight.

I asked directly: “Who was that?”

She hesitated, then exhaled: “My fiancé. We’ve been dating for six months. He wants to marry me.”

The word “fiancé” felt like a slap in the face.

I asked again, unable to believe it: “Fiancé? You’re seventeen!”

She nodded, and there was a fire in her eyes: “In two months, I’ll be eighteen. We will marry right after my birthday. It’s all settled.”

I felt the ground slipping away from under my feet: “How old is he?”

“Forty-eight. He’s divorced, with two grown-up children. He’s successful, well-off. He loves me and gives me what you never could.”

Those words hurt the most.

I tried to speak calmly, though inside I was boiling: “This isn’t normal. He’s nearly fifty. You could be his daughter.”

She flared up: “Age doesn’t matter! You just don’t understand! He takes care of me, gives me gifts, takes me to restaurants. With him, I feel like a woman, not a child!”

I looked at her and didn’t recognize her. My smart, sensible girl was talking like she was under some spell.

I tried to explain: “A grown man dating a seventeen-year-old isn’t normal. Healthy men don’t do that.”

She interrupted: “You’re just jealous! You have no one; you’re alone and unhappy! But I’m happy! For the first time in my life, I’m happy!”

The words were like blows. I tried to hold back my tears.

She continued, more calmly: “We are renting an apartment. After the wedding, we’ll move into his house. He’ll pay for my university, any one I want. He promised me travel, everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

I realized—he had bought her. With gifts, promises, attention. Gave her what I couldn’t, working myself to the bone.

I forbade her from seeing him. Told her that as long as she’s not eighteen, she lives by my rules.

My daughter stood up, cold as ice: “Two more months—and you’ll have no say over me. I’ll marry him, with or without your blessing.”

She went into her room and locked the door.

The next day, I tried to talk to her again. She wouldn’t listen. Kept repeating: “You don’t understand. This is love.”

I called the police, consulted them. They explained—if there’s no proof of coercion or abuse, they can’t do anything. In two months, she’ll be eighteen and can marry whoever she wants.

I tried reaching her through her friends. They knew about him but saw it as “romantic”—a wealthy older man in love with someone their age.

A month passed. My daughter started coming home only to sleep. All other time she spent with him. She talked about the wedding, the dress, what their life would be like.

I was dying from helplessness. Watching my daughter slide into an abyss, unable to stop her.

I tried to meet with him. Found his number, called. He agreed to meet—in a café, with witnesses.

We sat across from each other. He was well-groomed, confident, spoke calmly and politely. Explained that he loved my daughter, that age doesn’t matter, that he was serious about his intentions.

I asked directly: “Aren’t you ashamed? You could be her father.”

He shrugged: “I’m not her father. I’m a man who loves her and can give her a decent life. More than you.”

Those words finished me off completely.

Now there’s a week left until her eighteenth birthday. She almost doesn’t sleep at home anymore. Comes for her things, talks to me coolly, formally. Plans the wedding, picked out a dress, booked the restaurant.

I’ve lost my daughter. She looks at me as the enemy standing in the way of her happiness. Thinks I don’t understand true love, that I’m jealous, that I’m trying to control her.

And I can only see what she can’t—an older man manipulating a young girl, buying her with gifts and promises. But she’s blinded by the attention she so sorely lacked.

Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I worked too much and wasn’t there enough. Maybe she just missed male attention after her father left.

I lie awake at night wondering—what to do? Accept her choice and hope she realizes her mistake on her own? Or fight to the end, risking losing her forever?

She’s happy now. At least, that’s what she says. She glows when she talks about him. But I see—it’s not healthy happiness. It’s the euphoria of someone caught in a beautiful trap.

If you were in my place—what would you do? Let your daughter go, hoping she’ll come back when she understands? Or continue to fight, even if it means losing her trust forever? Where is the line between protecting your child and respecting their choice when that choice is destructive?

*****

Over the past month, my 17-year-old daughter had been coming home later and later, sometimes deep into the night. I believed every word she told me and kept telling myself I was panicking for no reason. Until one evening I stepped out onto the balcony and saw an expensive car pull up to our building. My daughter calmly got out. And right after her – an adult man. And what he allowed himself to do took my breath away…
Read the continuation in the comments