I brushed my daughter’s hair and felt how rarely she lets me now

Dear Delyara, She used to come to me for it. Sit between my knees, complain, wriggle, let me part and plait and smooth. Now she mostly does it herself, or wants to. Which is right. Which is healthy. Which also hurts in one of those quiet ways motherhood hurts all the time. Tonight she asked me because she was tired. I brushed slowly. I know enough now to feel the smallness of these returning moments while they are still happening. There are forms of love that don’t announce themselves. They sit in a bedroom with a brush and a child who still, for tonight, lets you help.