When I was 10, my mom would braid my hair every morning—but only on days when Dad was home. I used to ask her why she skipped the other days. She would smile and say, “It’s better this way.”
18 years later, my mom died. My dad came and revealed that he had struggled for years with severe OCD. He used to insist everything be done a specific way—right down to how his wife and children looked.
He often traveled for work, and I remembered how much more relaxed and comfortable my mom seemed whenever he was gone. He told me he’d started treatment while I was still young, and that it had helped him gain some control over his compulsions.
I still can’t believe. I realized that my mother had been shielding me from a reality she never wanted me to carry.
