When I was 10, my mom would braid my hair every morning—but only on days when Dad was home. I used to ask why she skipped the other days. She would smile and say, “It’s better this way.” Back then, I thought it was just one of those mysterious grown-up answers, something parents said when…
When I was 10, my mom would braid my hair every morning—but only on days when Dad was home. I used to ask why she skipped the other days. She would smile and say, “It’s better this way.” Back then, I thought it was just one of those mysterious grown-up answers, something parents said when they didn’t want to explain things to children. I didn’t question it much. I simply enjoyed the gentle tug of her fingers through my hair, the quiet moments we shared before school, and the feeling that everything in our small world was perfectly normal.
On the mornings Dad traveled for work, Mom seemed more relaxed. We ate breakfast slowly, sometimes laughing over spilled cereal or a silly story from the radio. My hair stayed loose, and we rushed out the door together, carefree and unhurried. I never noticed the difference in her mood until much later. To me, she was just being practical, saving time when it was just the two of us. Childhood has a way of hiding adult worries behind ordinary routines.
Eighteen years later, while helping her sort old photos, I casually mentioned how pretty my braids looked in those childhood pictures. She smiled, then grew quiet. After a long pause, she explained that my father, though loving, believed appearances mattered deeply and expected everything in the house to look orderly, including me. On the days he was home, she woke earlier to braid my hair so mornings would stay calm and peaceful. On the days he was away, she allowed herself—and me—a little freedom and extra rest.
In that moment, I finally understood what she meant by “It’s better this way.” She had quietly balanced everyone’s needs, protecting the harmony of our home while still giving me small pockets of ease and comfort. Those braids were never about hairstyle alone—they were her silent way of keeping our family steady. Now, whenever I braid my own daughter’s hair, I remember those mornings and recognize the quiet strength in the small things parents do, often unnoticed, simply to keep love at the center of everyday life.
