What’s the most painful thing you were wrongfully accused of?

When my daughter was sixteen, she started coming home late from school. Her grades were slipping, and she'd get these texts that made her jump up and leave the room. My ex-wife was convinced she was into drugs or worse. I wasn't so sure.

One night, I'm working late in my home office when I hear the front door at 11:30 PM. My daughter sneaks in, backpack clutched to her chest. When she sees me, she freezes like a deer in headlights. Before I can say anything, my ex storms in – she'd been waiting in the kitchen. Starts screaming about rehab and throwing away her future.

My daughter just stands there, tears streaming down her face, shaking her head. "It's not what you think," she keeps saying, but my ex is on a roll. Grabs the backpack and dumps it on the floor.

No drugs. Just a stack of notebooks and a laptop. My ex flips open one notebook and goes silent. Page after page of sheet music. Original compositions with notes scribbled in the margins: "Try in C minor" and "Add cello here."

My daughter finally speaks. "I've been using the music room after hours. Mrs. Peterson lets me stay late because... because I'm applying for Juilliard."

Turns out she'd been hiding her music from us for months. She thought we'd laugh at her dream – especially my ex, who always pushed her toward "practical" careers like law or medicine.

The next day, my ex is still convinced there's something else going on. Calls the school counselor demanding a drug test. The counselor calls back that afternoon while my daughter's at school. Says there's absolutely no evidence of drug use, but there is something we should know.

My daughter had been selected as a finalist in a national young composer competition. Her music teacher had been helping her prepare in secret because my daughter begged her not to tell us until she knew if she was good enough.

When my daughter gets home, I show her the music room I've set up in the spare bedroom. Nothing fancy – just a keyboard, her old violin we'd packed away years ago, and a decent microphone connected to a computer.

She just stands there, hand over her mouth. "You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad that my kid has a passion?"

Three months later, we're sitting in an auditorium at Juilliard. My daughter walks on stage, so small under those bright lights. The piece she plays – the one from those secret notebooks – silences the room. When she finishes, one of the judges asks who composed it.

"I did," she says, voice barely audible.

She got the scholarship. Full ride.