Only when Dad was home did my mom braid my hair every morning when I was 10. I wondered why she skipped other days. She smiled and said, “It’s better this way.”
18 years later, I realized my mother protected me.
I didn’t think much of it then. I liked braids because they were lovely. Mom would seat me on the bed, her fingers warm and tender, and carefully weave my hair back while humming a village lullaby.
Her mood changed when she didn’t braid my hair. Quiet. Tense. She handed me a hairbrush and said, “Just a ponytail today, sweetie.” Her hands moved quicker.
I hardly questioned it. I was young. School, friends, cartoons, and Mom hugs dominated my world. Dad’s presence changed that world.
He wasn’t cruel. Not in child-friendly ways. He spoke loudly. He overdrank beer. He shouted like a hurricane banging doors when angered.
Yes, there were good days. Days when dad brought home donuts or lifted me up, making me giggle till I sobbed. As confusing as riding a rollercoaster blindfolded.
In summer, he left. I was 13. His truck was gone when I got home from school. I anticipated the usual dinnertime disputes, bottle-clinking, and stillness. No one came.
Instead, Mom made pasta. She smiled throughout, eyes watery. She braided my hair that night for no reason. When I asked where Dad was, she responded, “He’s gone to find something. Maybe he’ll find peace.”
We rarely discussed it afterward.
Years passed. I matured. Got out. Attended college. Fell in love. Was harmed. Loved again. Life was messy and beautiful. But I always carried those mornings—the braids, the song, and my mom’s silent love for those modest gestures.
I temporarily returned home at 24. My mother broke her hip on ice. She needed help, and I needed a break from my hard job and a relationship that had collapsed under unspoken expectations.
It seemed strange living with her again. I changed. She had. Her speech was slower and kinder. More introspective.
During her nighttime hairbrushing after bathing, I asked her something I had never done before. “Why did you braid my hair only when Dad was home, Mom?”
She glanced up at me in the mirror, years of unspoken words in her eyes.
Only those days I could.”
I paused. “You mean what?”
With shaky hands, she set down her tea. “Your father had rules. Some silly, some serious. Among these was his dislike of you seeming ‘too fancy’ without him. I thought I was attempting to gain your attention or spoiling you. He didn’t want me ‘wasting time’ braiding your hair without him watching.”
The words slapped quietly. No big deal. Simply cold.
Not knowing what to say.
Heaving, she let go of something she’d carried for years. “I wanted to avoid upsetting him. I also wanted to give you something special. I reserved braids for his visits. My little defiance.”
Those mornings become more than recollections. They were her tightrope “I love you” gesture. My chest tightened.
“Why are you late?” I whispered.
A long sip of tea. “Love, fear, and hope sometimes share a room. For years, I thought loving him more would transform him.”
She and I held hands quietly. My heart grieved for the girl I was and the woman she was, but I had no words.
A lawyer wrote me months later.
Dad was talked about.
He died in an automobile crash. One car crash in a tiny village two hours away. Apparently he lived in his truck. The letter said he nominated me his next of kin and executor of his tiny estate.
I hadn’t seen him since 13.
I inhaled, drove to town, and grabbed a box of his possessions from a shabby office. I was pitied by the social worker behind the desk.
“Your dad was complicated,” he replied softly. I was told about you. He lifted you on his shoulders it said. Said he ruined everything.”
I nodded, unsure of my emotions.
The box was opened at home. My childhood photo, a faded notebook, and a few clothing were inside.
A notepad was full of letters. To me.
Each dated from his departure.
They were flawed. Some babbled. Some apologize. One said, “I don’t expect forgiveness. I hope you braid your kid’s hair every day, regardless.”
I wept. Not because I spared him. But because I learned that people carry their brokenness like shadows and occasionally pass them on.
Shadows die in light.
I informed Mom of the letters. Nodding, she shed a tear.
“I think he loved you the best way he could,” she added. It wasn’t enough, but he had it.
I braided her silver hair at her side that night. We laughed. Cried. Don’t leave quiet empty.
Years later, I had a daughter. The name is Liana.
Every morning, I braid her hair.
Despite lateness. Despite fatigue. Despite her objections. Because hair is never enough for me.
Being present matters.
Choose softness even when life is rough.
Liana, 6, asked, “Why do you always braid my hair?” one morning.
I smiled and added, “Because it’s better this way.”
I hope she’ll come to comprehend that. Perhaps when she turns 28. Maybe when she finds an old photo or hears a song that makes her heart throb in the nicest way.
We don’t understand many things in life.
The Days Dad Was Home
