When I was 10, my mom braided my hair every morning—but only when Dad was home. If he was away, she left it loose. Whenever I asked why, she would smile and say, “It’s better this way.”
As a child, I didn’t question it. I loved the gentle pull of her fingers and the quiet time together before school. On the days Dad traveled, mornings felt lighter. We lingered over breakfast, laughed at small things, and hurried out the door carefree. I thought Mom was just saving time.
It took me eighteen years to understand.
While sorting old photos, I told her how pretty my braids looked. She smiled, then grew quiet. Finally, she explained that my father believed appearances mattered and wanted everything orderly—including me. When he was home, she woke early to braid my hair so the day would begin peacefully. When he was gone, she allowed us both a little extra rest, a little freedom.
Suddenly her words came back: It’s better this way.
The braids were never just a hairstyle. They were her quiet compromise, her way of protecting harmony while still giving me small moments of ease.
Now, when I braid my daughter’s hair, I think of my mother and the invisible strength in the little things parents do to keep love at the center of everyday life.
