She walked into the salon with swollen eyes, clutching a ten-dollar bill and two ones.
“My son’s wedding is in a few hours,” she whispered. “I don’t want to embarrass him. I have twelve dollars.”
Her cardigan was worn, her shoes tired, but her eyes carried a steady resolve that stopped me in my tracks. I pushed the money aside and pulled out a chair. “You won’t embarrass anyone,” I told her. “Sit down. Let me take care of you.”
I curled soft waves into her gray hair, shaped her brows, brushed shimmer across her eyelids, and pressed a rose tint onto her lips. When I turned her toward the mirror, she trembled. “Please don’t let me be invisible today,” she had whispered earlier. Now, she smiled like the sun itself had found her again. She tried to leave the twelve dollars on my counter. I slid it back. “Go enjoy your son’s day,” I said.
The next morning, I opened the salon door and froze. Flowers filled the room—tulips, roses, lilies, baby’s breath. No note, only a small card tucked under a vase: Thank you for seeing me.
Later, the wedding venue called. “The groom and his wife would like you at a dinner Friday night to say thank you.”
When I arrived, the bride was glowing, and the room was filled with warmth. The woman’s name was Mirela. She hugged me like family. “My son and daughter-in-law pooled money from the wedding gifts. The flowers were from them. They said a card wasn’t enough.”
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