A mother’s love has no limits—but what happens when her child draws one? I’m Mariam, 63, a hairdresser who raised my son, Patrick, alone after my husband died. For years, we were everything to each other. Until one day, I found out from a neighbor that my only child got married—without me.

He said he didn’t tell me because of “my situation”—code for my basement salon, thrift-store clothes, and the life I built with my bare hands. His new in-laws were wealthy. I was someone he loved… but couldn’t let them see. That broke something deeper than my heart—it broke our bond.

But fate had other plans. Barbara’s mother, Eleanor, walked into my salon one Thursday morning and changed everything. She became a regular, told her friends, and helped me move into a beautiful new shop. Word spread—not about my poverty, but about my talent, my warmth, and my story.

One day, Patrick stood outside my new salon, uncertain. I let him in—but not without telling him the truth: I wasn’t ashamed. He was. And now, it was his turn to come home—not to my success, but to the mother who loved him through everything. Because salons close at six. But a mother’s love? It never does.