I worked my whole life for him. Every coin I saved, every night I stayed late cleaning offices, every aching muscle — it was all for my son. When he told me he was getting married, I felt like the happiest mother in the world. I wanted his wedding to be perfect — something he would remember for the rest of his life.

I sold my gold ring, emptied my savings account, even took on extra shifts at work. My hands were cracked and rough from chemicals, my back hurt every morning, but I didn’t care. I bought him a beautiful modern suit, helped pay for the decorations, and contributed to the reception. It was all worth it — or so I thought.

Then, the day before the wedding, he said something that shattered me completely.

— Mom, please… don’t come to the wedding.
— What? — I looked at him in disbelief.
— There will be important people there. Lisa’s family, business partners, wealthy friends. You won’t feel comfortable. And… I don’t want to be embarrassed.
He hesitated for a second, then added quietly:
— I don’t want people to know that my mother is a cleaning lady.

The words hit me like a knife. My own son — the boy I raised with my bare hands, the one I gave everything for — was ashamed of me.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen, staring at my worn-out hands, the same hands that once held him when he cried, that fed him when we had almost nothing. By morning, I made my decision: I would go. I didn’t plan to disturb anyone; I just wanted to see him happy.

I stood outside the wedding hall. Music and laughter echoed all around, luxury cars lined the street, and elegantly dressed guests smiled for the cameras. And there I was — in my old coat, hiding my cracked fingers in my pockets, watching from a distance.

Then I saw him. My son. He looked so handsome, so proud. He was wearing the very suit I had bought him. He held his bride’s hand and smiled. My heart filled with pride — and broke at the same time.

Someone asked him:
— Where’s your mother?
He smiled slightly and said:
— Oh, she doesn’t like this kind of event. She’s not comfortable in such company.

People laughed.

I turned and walked away. Each step felt heavier than the last. By the time I got home, I could barely breathe through the pain. That night, I realized something — the deepest wounds are not caused by strangers, but by those we love the most.

Years passed. Sometimes he would send a short message: “Mom, everything’s fine. Lisa’s pregnant.”
I would answer simply: “I’m happy for you, son.” And that was all.

Then one evening, the phone rang.
— Mom… I’m sorry. Lisa left me. I’m alone. Now I understand everything. You were the only one who ever truly cared.

I stayed silent. My hands trembled, and tears filled my eyes.
— Son, — I whispered, — you should never be ashamed of poverty. You should only be ashamed of forgetting love.

He came the next day. When he saw me, he broke down and cried, his head resting on my shoulder like when he was little.
And I held him tightly and said:
— I’ve already forgiven you, my child. A mother’s heart never stops loving.

Now I live simply again. I clean buildings, count every penny, and live quietly. But I’m at peace. Because I know my son finally learned: it’s not poverty that brings shame — it’s pride that kills love.