I am Teresa, 58 years old. A simple woman, a market vendor, and the single mother of my son, Marco, who was about to marry the woman he loved—Lara, a young professional from a wealthy family.

“Poor thing… she should’ve dressed better.”

I smiled tightly, keeping my head high, trying not to let Marco see my embarrassment.

Then Lara approached. Her white gown glimmered, but her eyes were moist with tears. She reached for my hand—hands hardened by years of labor, soil, and sweat.

“Mom,” she said softly, “is that the dress you wore when Marco was born?”

I froze. “How… how did you know?”

“Marco told me,” she whispered, “he said whenever he wants to remember your love, he thinks of you in this dress—holding him through pain, smiling anyway.”

The room seemed to hush, as if everyone was listening.

She continued, “I don’t want you to change a thing. That dress… it’s every sacrifice you made for Marco. Nothing could be more beautiful.”

She hugged me, and I felt Marco step closer, gently wiping my tears.

“Mom,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “thank you for the green dress. Every time I see it, I remember there’s no color more beautiful than the love you’ve given me.”

For illustrative purpose only