“It’s the truth. Ask your father if you don’t believe me. The witch told us that if anyone cut your hair after you turned sixteen, you would surely die.”

As I stood there, in complete and utter disbelief, my mother stared back at me, an infinite sadness clouding her eyes. For the first time, I noticed how there were strands of gray threaded throughout her dark hair and how a network of fine lines creased the middle of her forehead. For the first time, I realized my mother was aging.

I sat back down, suddenly out of breath. “Why – why didn’t you tell me before?”

My mother spread her hands out on the table, twisting her wedding ring as she did whenever she was nervous.

“Fear, I guess. I was afraid something might happen to you.”

Suddenly, everything started falling into place. “That explains why I was never allowed to use knives or forks, or scissors, and why you freaked out when I picked up daddy’s shears when I was little.”

“Now do you understand why we had to put you in this tower?”

“Not really.”