Only when Dad was home did my mom braid my hair every morning when I was ten. I wondered why she skipped the other days. She smiled and said, “It’s better this way.” Eighteen years later, I realized my mother had been protecting me. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I liked braids—they were beautiful. Mom would seat me on the bed, her fingers warm and gentle, and carefully weave my hair while humming a village lullaby. Her mood shifted on the days she didn’t braid me—quiet, tense. She’d hand me a hairbrush and say, “Just a...
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