WHEN I WAS 10, MOM ONLY BRAIDED MY HAIR WHEN DAD WAS HOME—

When I was 10, my mom braided my hair only when Dad was home, smiling as she said, “It’s better this way.” Years later, clearing out my childhood attic after Mom’s passing, I found a leather pouch with photos and a letter. The photos showed me with neat braids when Dad was there, but messy hair when he wasn’t. Mom’s letter revealed her quiet sadness—Dad’s “work trips” left her feeling invisible. She braided my hair on days he was home to feel whole, hoping he’d notice. Recently, Dad admitted to another life he tried to balance, suspecting

Mom knew but never confronted him. Those braids were her silent resistance, a way to hold on. Now, braiding my daughter Leena’s hair for kindergarten, I think of Mom’s quiet strength. Leena asked if the braids make her brave, and I said yes. Mom taught me strength isn’t always loud—it’s in showing up, loving through pain. I braid Leena’s hair to honor that quiet power, a lesson from the smallest acts: a smile, a braid, a pause.