I glanced at my reflection one last time before picking up the scissors. My chestnut hair fell to my waistit had taken years to grow it that long. But when I saw Margaret last week, so frail after her second round of chemotherapy, I knew exactly what I had to do.
“Are you sure about this?” my sister asked from the bathroom doorway. “Its your hair… and after everything that happened with Edward…”
“Its just hair, Charlotte. And Margaret still matters to me, even if Im no longer with her son.”
With trembling hands, I made the first cut. Strand by strand, my hair tumbled to the floor like a silent offering. An hour later, I had a pixie cut that made me look entirely different, yet Id never felt more like myself.
I gathered every lock carefully and placed them in a clear bag. The next day, I visited the wig maker the hospital nurse had recommended.
“Is this for yourself?” asked Mrs. Whitmore, the specialist.
“No, its for my former mother-in-law. Shes going through chemo. Even though were no longer… well, she was always kind to me.”
Her eyes softened with understanding.
“What a lovely thing to do. With hair this silky and full, Ill make the most natural wig Ive ever crafted.”
Two weeks later, I stood at Margarets door, clutching a box wrapped in gold paper. It had taken days to muster the courage. What if she didnt want to see me? What if she thought it improper after the divorce?
“My goodness! What a surprise!” she exclaimed, opening the door. Her face shifted from shock to a warm smile. “Come in, dear.”
“I know I might not belong here,” I began, my voice unsteady, “but when I heard about your illness… I brought you something.”
Margaret took my hands. “Youll always be welcome in this house. Edward lost a wonderful woman, but I wont lose you.”
She unwrapped the gift slowly. When she saw the wig, she pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes brimming with tears.
“It cant be… This hair… is it yours?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, stroking the wig as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “You didnt have to…”
“Yes, I did. You were like a mother to me for eight years, Margaret. A divorce doesnt change that. Hair grows back.”
She removed her scarf with shaky hands and put on the wig. The resemblance was uncannyMrs. Whitmore had worked magic. Margaret looked just as she had before the treatment.
“How do I look?” she asked, turning before the hallway mirror.
“You look beautiful. You look like yourself.”
We hugged and wept together. In that moment, I knew Id done the right thing. My hair would grow again, but this act of love would stay with us forever.
“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear. “For giving me back a piece of myself.”
That evening, back in my flat, I sat before the mirror of my new life. Charlotte rang me.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Good. Really good. I did the right thing.”
“Youre remarkable, you know. Not many would do that after such a messy divorce.”
“Margaret was never to blame for what happened with Edward. She loved me when I was part of her family, and that love doesnt vanish with divorce papers.”
Months later, when Margarets treatment ended and her own hair began to grow back, she invited me for lunch. She placed the wig in a special box before me.
“This wig,” she said, tears in her eyes, “isnt just hair. Its proof that true love outlasts legal ties. You chose to remain my daughter in heart, and that, my dear, is priceless.”
My hair had grown, toothough not quite as much as my certainty that Id made the right choice. Because sometimes, the bonds of the heart are stronger than those on paper, and real love knows nothing of “former” anything.
