Every mother since Mary has echoed that yes, in her own way. Not always with words. Sometimes with tears. Sometimes with whispered prayers. Sometimes with fierce protection. Sometimes with a little guilt. But always with love. And that love—like all real love—like Christ’s love-comes with a cost. A mother’s love is the first love that wounds her. It wounds her body in childbirth. It wounds her sleep for years. It wounds her heart every time her child suffers, or struggles, or strays. And yet her calling is to remain steady in that love.