For my eighteenth birthday, my grandma knitted me a red cardigan. I barely thanked her before rushing out to celebrate. She passed weeks later. The cardigan stayed untouched in my closet—part guilt, part grief.
Years passed. One afternoon, my daughter found it. Slipping it on, she said, “Something’s in the pocket.”
Inside was a note: “May this keep you warm when I can no longer. Never forget how much you are cherished.”
Tears blurred the words. My daughter held my hand in silence.
I told her about the woman who gave so much with so little.
Now she wears the cardigan proudly—more than yarn, it’s a thread through generations. A quiet reminder: love never leaves. It simply waits to be found.
