When I was ten, my mother braided my hair every morning—but only when my father was home.
On the days he traveled for work, she didn’t. I used to ask why, and she’d answer with a gentle smile: "It’s easier this way.” I accepted it the way children do, without questioning. I simply enjoyed the steady rhythm of her fingers in my hair, the quiet intimacy of those mornings, and the sense that everything in our small house was exactly as it should be.
When my father was away, the house felt lighter. Mom lingered at the breakfast table. We laughed when milk spilled or the radio host told a bad joke. My hair stayed loose, and we’d leave without hurry or tension. I didn’t recognize the shift in her then. I thought she was just being practical—cutting corners when it was just the two of us. I didn’t yet understand how much effort it took to keep life running smoothly.
Nearly two decades later, we were looking through old photo albums. I commented on how neat my braids looked in so many of the pictures.
She smiled at first, then grew quiet. After a moment, she explained. My father—kind in his own way—believed order and presentation mattered. He expected the household, including me, to reflect that. On the days he was home, she woke earlier to braid my hair so mornings wouldn’t become tense.
When he was away, she allowed herself—and me—more freedom and a slower pace.
That’s when her old words finally settled into meaning.
"It’s easier this way” wasn’t about convenience. It was about balance. She had quietly managed everyone’s expectations, holding peace where she could while carving out small pockets of ease for us both. Those braids were never just a hairstyle. They were her unspoken way of keeping the family steady.
Now, when I braid my own daughter’s hair, I think of those mornings. I understand the quiet resilience folded into routine—the invisible ways parents protect love, one small choice at a time.
