Then, as if on cue, my mom sent a selfie from the farmers market. She had a calm smile, silver strands framing her face, and no filters. Just herself—happy, natural, confident. I stared at that picture for a long time.
The next morning, something unexpected happened. When I arrived at work, there was a small box on my desk. No label, no note. Just a simple package.
I opened it cautiously. Inside was a crocheted beanie—light gray with tiny flecks of navy blue. It was beautifully made. Beneath it was a small card that read, “Wear your crown with pride.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it a kind gesture? A joke? Something in between? Nobody was watching for my reaction. Tyrese wasn’t even in yet, and Jamal was busy at his desk.
Later, I remembered that a colleague named Tasha used to crochet gifts for people. But she was on maternity leave. The mystery deepened.
That evening, standing in front of the mirror again, I tried on the beanie. It actually looked nice—and the silver threads in the yarn matched my hair. I thought of my mom’s smile again, and something inside me softened.
When my partner saw it, they smiled. “Looks good on you,” they said. I shrugged, explaining the story. “Someone left it on my desk with a note about wearing my crown with pride.”
“Maybe the universe is sending a little encouragement,” they replied.
The next day, I wore the beanie to work. It was chilly in the office, so it didn’t seem out of place. Tyrese gave me a quick nod when he saw it, like an unspoken gesture of support. Jamal came over a few minutes later.
“Looking stylish,” he said, then hesitated. “Hey, about the other day… I didn’t mean anything by that comment.”
“You mean calling me Granny?” I replied gently. “I know it was a joke, but it stuck with me.”
He looked genuinely apologetic. “Yeah, I crossed a line. I didn’t mean it personally. You just have this calm, experienced vibe. I shouldn’t have made it a joke.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Just…call me by my name.”
He smiled. “Deal.”
Later, Tyrese came over too. He looked unsure, fidgeting. “I wanted to say sorry, too. The whole ‘Ma’am’ thing… I meant it respectfully, but I realize now how it might’ve come off.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Let’s just keep things casual. I’m here to help, not to feel like I’m from a different century.”
He laughed, and the awkwardness faded. Before he walked off, I asked, “Did you leave that beanie?”
He shook his head. “I wish I could crochet. But no, not me.”
So the mystery remained.
That week, something in me shifted. I stopped seeing my gray streaks as something to hide. I started noticing others in the office who had a bit of silver too—like Rina from IT, who always wore a headband to cover hers. We ended up talking about it, laughing a bit, sharing stories.
By Friday, an anonymous email popped into my inbox. “Heard you got a new hat—looks good on you.” No name, and when I replied, the email bounced back. Still anonymous. Still kind.
I smiled. Maybe I’d never find out who sent the gift. Maybe that was the point.
That evening, my partner looked up as I came in. “You look happy,” they said.
I was. Because sometimes, the smallest gestures—a card, a kind word, a beanie—remind you of who you are, and that you’re not alone.