When I was ten, my mother braided my hair every morning—but only on days when Dad was home. I used to ask her why she missed the other days. She smiled and said, “It’s better this way.”

18 years later, my mother died. My father walked in and disclosed that he had suffered from severe OCD for years. He used to insist on everything being done exactly correctly, including the appearance of his wife and children.

He frequently traveled for work, and I remember how much more relaxed and comfortable my mother appeared while he was gone. He informed me that he began treatment when I was still small, and that it had helped him get some control over his compulsions.

I still cannot believe it. I understood my mother had been protecting me from a reality she didn’t want me to face.