Each evening, Maya sat on the floor between my knees while I worked through the tangles from the ends upward. She usually read a book while I brushed, pausing only to complain if I pulled too hard.
My husband, Felix, and I called her Rapunzel.
“Rapunzel, breakfast is getting cold.”
“Rapunzel, your tower appears to be full of dirty socks.”
“Rapunzel, kindly rescue your wet towel from the bathroom floor.”
She pretended the nickname embarrassed her, but I knew better. Once, when Felix simply called, “Maya, dinner,” she appeared in the doorway and said with complete seriousness, “You forgot the Rapunzel part.”
Her hair was more than a feature she liked. It had become part of her identity—something familiar she could hide behind when the world felt too loud.
And school often felt too loud for Maya.
She was thoughtful and bright, but quiet. She rarely spoke unless she was sure of what she wanted to say. At recess, she preferred sitting beneath a tree with a book to joining a crowded game. Some children accepted that. Others treated anything different as an invitation to be cruel.
