Sunday nights had always been quiet in our home. One evening, my twelve-year-old daughter Emily sat between my knees while I brushed her long chestnut hair. It reached past her waist, and she proudly insisted she would never cut it. Her grandmother Linda was always there when my work kept me busy, helping with school activities and appointments. I appreciated her, but sometimes felt guilty that she experienced moments I should have shared with Emily.
The next day, Emily returned home wearing a hood, and I discovered that her beautiful long hair had been cut short. She was upset and told me to ask Grandma. Linda explained that Emily needed to tell me herself at the school concert. Later, I found a note in Emily’s backpack suggesting someone had made fun of her hair. Worried, I decided to attend the concert despite my manager asking me to return to work. For once, I chose my daughter first.
