On my eighteenth birthday, my grandmother handed me a small, carefully wrapped box. Inside was a red cardigan she had knitted herself. I barely looked at it. A quick “thank you,” a kiss on her cheek, and I was gone—chasing late-night plans, laughter, and freedom. At eighteen, I didn’t realize that every stitch carried hours of her care, her love woven into the very fabric.
Just weeks later, she passed away.
The cardigan, still folded neatly, was tucked into the back of my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it—not because I didn’t cherish it, but because it filled me with guilt. I had brushed off her effort, treated her gift like any other sweater. And then she was gone. Every glance at that folded fabric reminded me of the thank-you I never truly gave.
Years passed. Life moved forward—college, first jobs, love, marriage, motherhood. The cardigan traveled with me, carefully folded into boxes labeled keepsakes. I couldn’t throw it away, but I couldn’t face it either. It became a quiet symbol of both love and regret.
Then, one rainy afternoon, while tidying the attic with my fifteen-year-old daughter, she found it.
“Mom, what’s this?” she asked, holding up the cardigan, eyes wide. “It’s beautiful. Can I try it on?”
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